


Crush

by BewareTheIdes15



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, Frottage, M/M, Oral Sex, Sibling Incest, Weechesters, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-27
Updated: 2011-06-27
Packaged: 2017-10-20 19:16:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BewareTheIdes15/pseuds/BewareTheIdes15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean looks at him different now, Sam just can't figure out what the difference is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dean looks at him different now. For starters, he looks AT him, not down at him because Sam's allots the same size as Dean now - when Dean's hair's flat, like after the shower, you can't even see a difference - and at fifteen he's probably got another few inches in him at least. His stupid hand-me-downs don't swallow him whole anymore, even pull a little at the shoulders where they're getting broader than Dean's and he gets his own never-before-worn-by-his-big-brother jeans, all of which is awesome, but not really the point.

The point is, Sam always figured Dean would look at him different once he was older, like an equal, or at least a peer, but it's not like that. It's not like the way he looks at Dad - of course - or Caleb or Bobby and it's not even like how he looks at other guys his age, in fact, it's not really like how he looks at anybody else at all. Sam can't exactly figure out what it is, but it's happening a lot - almost constantly for months and months now - and he can just feel Dean eyes on him, like, all the time. He doesn't know what to make of it, but it's kinda driving him nuts.

***

Sam's probably the only kid in America who hates summer more than any other time of year; summer vacation is for kids who don't know the monsters under the bed are real. Being a Winchester means spending the summer in the Impala, following along behind Dad's truck with your arm out the window to catch a road-stained breeze and your sweaty thighs chemically bonded to the vinyl seat. It means stewing in the smell of sweat and gunpowder and salt until it's ingrained in the pores of your soul and living with newspaper ink permanently staining your fingers like you just got booked by the cops. It means Dad has free rein to drag them all over the country, a new motel every week, without feeling guilty about dragging Sam out of school - or, more precisely, without having to hear Sam bitch about being pulled out of school - and that's maybe even more annoying because Sam doesn't even have a leg to stand on to complain now. So yeah, summer can pretty much suck Sam's balls.

The nights would be a little bit better - at least it's not as hot - except that being a Winchester also means that you only know the meaning of privacy as something other people have. If they drive through the night it's not so bad; the cooler air blows in the open windows and circulates around the car so they can finally breath something that doesn't feel like soup in their lungs and Sam can pillow his head on Dean's thigh and sleep like when he was little. Other times, when they've been driving all day and are gonna keep right on going into the next, Dean will pull over and let Sam drive for a couple of hours and everything is switched up so it's Dean's head in Sam's lap and Dean's warm breath on his thigh. The worst is when they get a motel, which is most of the time, because even though they're now three full-sized men, Dad still won't get a second room, and Sam and Dean end up sharing a little queen bed where their shoulders barely fit and they inevitably end up flopped all over each other in the night, sweating right through their underwear and the sheets from all of the body heat.

It's one of those nights, some motel in the boonies in Mississippi,and the air's so muggy Sam swears he can feel it on his tongue. He wakes up with a jolt and sharp breath, mind scrambling for a second as he pulls out of the dream and pieces together where he is. He's wet and sticky all over, but especially down below and he knows with a sickening roll of his stomach why. Sam can't exactly remember what he was dreaming, but it was obviously good from the way his boxers stick and slide through the globs of come pasting his crotch to Dean's thigh.

"Sorry," he whispers, not having to shift his head up to know his brother's awake. This kind of thing shouldn't embarrass him anymore, it's sure as hell not the first time it's ever happened, and Sam's definitely not the only one who does it - shit, he woke up with Dean's jizz spread all over his hip and side not two weeks ago, and his brother's friggin' nineteen and getting laid all the time - but it still makes Sam's face heat up with shame.

"S'ok," Dean mumbles back, hand sliding up Sam's spine to pet through his hair. It's kinda not ok at all, it's kinda gross actually, because they're gonna have to sleep like this now. Dad's whole freaky Marine thing plus a hunter's honed senses means he's basically the lightest sleeper on the planet - more than those couple of short whispers between them, let alone something like going to the bathroom to clean up, and Dad'd be up and alert like a shot went off. Neither of them wants to explain the wet dream situation to their father - that's a torture far worse than sleeping in a puddle of your own come - so as per their mutual, unspoken agreement, they wait it out until Dad gets up to go find some coffee in the morning and then get cleaned up.

Summer can really, seriously, suck Sam's balls.

Sam shuffles around on Dean's thigh - trying really hard to ignore the shocky, razor-edged sweetness of friction on his freshly emptied dick - his own leg accidentally brushing Dean's inevitable hard-on which makes his brother clench up. That's not exactly new either, they're both teenagers and rubbing up against another warm body in the night is just bound to do stuff, it's not like it's a big deal or anything, and sometimes that makes Sam even sadder that his big brother's erection against his leg doesn't even freak him out.

Except this time maybe it does just a little bit because Dean's free hand reaches down to cup around the back of Sam's thigh and pull it against his cock again. He's not exactly sure what that's supposed to mean until Dean does it again, and then again, and holy shit that's a rhythm; Dean's rubbing himself off with Sam's freakin' leg!

Sam's eyes shoot up to Dean's in the dark, cheek trying to stick against his brother's bare chest. Dean purses his lips and makes a very quiet shushing sound before he presses his head further back into the thin pillow and rolls his hips up against Sam's thigh again.

Sam's face almost tingles with all of the blood rushing to it, a tight heat blooming in his chest like a hot lead flower. This seems weird, feels weird, makes him all jumpy and squirmy and he wants to say something because this is too fucking much but Dad's right there and if he doesn't stay quiet it's going to be even worse than the wet dream talk and God, Sam'd rather just cut off his dick than have to deal with that fuster cluck of a conversation. So he stays silent, listening to Dean draw in tightly controlled breaths as the hot line of his cock rides up and down Sam's thigh.

On the one hand, helping is worse, right? Helping is like actively getting his big brother off, but at the same time, helping will make it go a lot faster than if he just lays he and lets Dean move his leg around. And it's not exactly the worst thing in the world, after all; he'd probably been doing to to Dean just a few minutes ago in his sleep so it really shouldn't be any worse doing it awake, right? Right.

Sam flexes the muscles, pushes in a little harder to give Dean something firm to ride and Dean's breath catches in his chest like he might have made a sound if he could afford to. Instead he just bucks his hips up a touch more and takes what Sam's giving. The hand he was using to control Sam's leg now slips softly up and down the back of Sam's thigh, the slow constant rasp of calusses lighting the skin on fire.

His heart's pounding in his chest, blood rushing close to the surface of his skin to make everything run hotcoldhot almost like he's turned on but he doesn't want to think about that even if his cock is trying to twitch back to life. It's just that the way Dean's moves make Sam's groin rub against his brother's hip, that all.

Dean's dick is so full, literally rock hard against Sam's leg so he's got to be close and now Sam just mostly wants it to be over with before he gets back to that point himself and they have to start this all over again - there's really only so much spooge smell Dad can be expected to ignore.

Dean was the one who taut Sam pretty much everything, told him it was ok when he first started wanting to touch himself, told him about sex and condoms and porn and stuff that feels good, so Sam knows way more than he should - way more than he ever realized until right this moment - about what Dean likes. Sam's fingers slide up Dean's chest slowly, eyes darting to meet his brother's but they're closed like he's lost in the steady roll-thrust they've got working between them. Dean's barely daring to breathe, the sound of it in his lungs underneath Sam's ear ragged and desperate as the thunder of his heartbeat. When Sam's fingers find the dark disk of his brother's nipple, Dean's breath stops completely, a choked off little noise murdered in the pit of his throat. Dad shifts but doesn't wake.

The sound does something weird to Sam, makes his stomach muscles flutter with bright little bursts of almost-cold that melt away into the pool heat in his gut. Yep, he's hard again.

The blunt pads of his fingers dance over the peak of Dean's nipple, slowing to rub it in soothing circles before he catches and twists it until Dean's lips are clamped in a tight line. Dean's hand slides into the leg of Sam's ruined boxers to palm the cheek of his ass, sending another slow, dirty wave of heat through Sam's body. Dad snuffles in his bed, three feet away, one arm flopping out over the side and Sam could touch it if he reached out.

He stifles his own suddenly heavy breaths in Dean's underarm. It should be gross, and if they were up and horsing around he'd whine and wrestle and tease Dean about B.O. when his brother tried to shove Sam's face in his pit, but they're not up and horsing around and right now the smell of Dean's sweat and cheap deoderant and generic laundry detergent is oddly comforting.

Dean's fingers dig in hard against Sam's ass and he can already picture fuzzy round bruises from Dean's fingers, pushing down harder with his leg as his brother rocks against him faster. So close, so close. He can feel Dean's precome soaking through his brother's boxers, painting a whisper of a trail on Sam's skin and his finger's close in on Dean's nipple again, pinching until he can feel the pressure of his short fingernails from either side with only the thin strip of Dean flesh separating them.

Dean goes rigid, body arched bow string taut and Sam feels the sludgy heat spread against his leg as Dean's dick jerks over and over again in time with his brother's quiet, hicupping breaths. And, God, if this wasn't one of those things he was pretty sure they were never going to talk about, he'd worry about Dean giving him shit over blowing his wad again this fast, with nothing but a little friction to get him there, but he's not, so he lets go like he has any choice in the matter anyway and rewets his sticky boxers against Dean's hip.

So, yeah, that just happened.

A part of Sam wants really badly to freak out, but he just came twice in under an hour, so he's all kind of buzzy and unintentionally mellow and there's this other part of him - he has a feeling it's being heavily influenced by is cock - that says it's not really that much freakier than anything else he's ever done with Dean, so what's the big deal? Sam doesn't have a good answer for that at the moment.

Dean's hand reluctantly slides away from Sam's ass to cradle the small of his back, but the hand in his hair doesn't move. Sam nestles his head back into the comfy spot under Dean's chin that seems like it was made for him to fit into and for a second, Dean's mouth dips down and presses to Sam's forehead. He's not sure what that was supposed to mean either, but apparently this is just one of those nights where nothing's gonna make sense so he closes his eyes and tries to find a comfortable position inside his messy underwear. Showering's going to be a bitch.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam halfway expects the way Dean looks at him to change again after they start rubbing off on each other in the middle of the night, but it doesn't. He still watches Sam with the same half-hidden intensity and Sam wonders if it has anything to do with what they're doing together or if he's making it out to be a bigger deal than it is. Either way, it's not enough to get him motivated to stop coming to the firm slide of Dean's body against him and he ends up washing a lot of his underwear by hand in the motel sinks so Dad won't notice how he's always running out of boxers.

Sometimes he thinks he recognizes bits and pieces of the look his brother gives him; when they're in a diner or stopped to get gas or when Dean decides he's going to go to some bar and hustle pool but it's never quite right and it's pissing Sam off because it seems like the answer's right there on the tip of his mind and he's just not getting it.

***

Fall is better, especially up north because the leaves are pretty and it cools off quicker and stupidly, sickly, because the weather is a good excuse for when he and Dean end up flopped in the same bed together - even though they each have their own in the apartment right now - and he really doesn't know when that became something important instead of something that just happened.

The grass coated over with dew in the night and now it's all crispy and frozen, crunching under Sam's feet and getting the frayed bottom of his jeans wet as he walks toward school. Dean offered to give him a ride but he said no and he doesn't remember why. He's frustrated somehow, in ways he can't explain or figure out and he doesn't know what to do with it, it just keeps welling up in him like the tide for no reason at all and somehow it's both better and worse when Dean's there.

It's just cold enough for his breath to steam up a little in the air, and it's almost perfectly quiet until he hears the crisp fall of boots moving fast behind him. He tenses automatically, prepared for attack on instinct; but it's not like that, of course, because they go looking for the bad things, not the other way around. It's Dean, which is maybe even weirder because Dean doesn't chase after anybody except for Dad and certainly not his dumb kid brother.

"Hey," Dean says, smiling through the sheet-creases that haven't faded from his cheeks yet as Sam turns to look at him. He sounds a little breathless, like maybe Sam left something at the rental and Dean ran to bring it to him, except Dean doesn't have anything with him to give Sam, so that can't be it.

"Hey," Sam responds warily, more confused than anything. They're just kind of standing there, a couple of feet between them still, in this little line of trees between the street next to theirs and the neighborhood playground, empty and sparkling in the morning chill.

"Sure you don't want a ride?" Dean asks, but it seems more like something to say than something he means. Sam could be halfway there in the time it will take to turn around and walk back for the car.

"Yeah."

"'Kay," Dean says simply and falls into step beside Sam like he's going to walk him to school. Which, apparently, is exactly what he plans to do, even though he seems to have forgotten his jacket back at the rental and Sam can see the goosebumps crawling across his pale skin to disappear under the t-shirt he slept in. "Anything exciting going on at school today?"

"Um, no."

Sam fumbles awkwardly for something to say. Usually Dean's the one who kinda leads the conversation - how Sammy Hagar ruined Van Halen, and why the random cars they pass on the highway will never be as awesome as the Impala, and which one of the Charlie's Angels would be a better lay - unless it was one of those big important things that Dean would avoid talking about like the plague; Sam's no good at just shooting the breeze.

They walk in silence over the gravel bed of the swing set, cutting around the jungle gym toward the edge of the playground. Dean reaches up and grabs a rung on the monkey bars as they pass, lifting himself up off of his feet for a second before plopping back down to the clay-damp ground.

"So I was thinkin' we could go to a movie tonight or somethin'," Dean says at last, all off-hand, like it's nothing, but his voice doesn't sound right.

"You… You wanna go to a movie? With me?" In general Sam has this habit of answering a question with a question, pisses Dad off something fierce so he's probably trained himself to do it a little more than strictly necessary. Still, that's pretty weird. Dean doesn't go to movies except for with girls; he told Sam once that anything worth seeing'll be on TV eventually anyway, that a movie's just a $6 excuse to get a girl alone in the dark. Color Sam confused.

"Or, y'know, not. Whatever," Dean shrugs and bites at his bottom lip, hands shoving deep into his pockets. He looks… he looks…

It hits Sam like a brick to the head - God, he wishes he didn't know what that actually felt like - Dean's nervous. Dean doesn't GET nervous, like at all. Dean's the guy who killed his first monster when he was 12 years old, who pretty much single-handedly raised Sam, who could put together a car from scratch and never backs down from a fight even if he's outnumbered. Dean could walk up to the hottest girl any place they went and walk out with her spit drying on his dick and a phone number he'd never call scribbled on his palm. Dean is not capable of nervous.

Those stupid black motorcycle boots kick at an empty can as they cross over Willow St., this soft pink tint rising up high on Dean's cheeks like a blush. Considering that Sam spends most of his time running around after poltergeists and Black Dogs and shit like that, this should not be the most bizarre moment of his life.

"Thought the only reason to go to the movies was to make out or get head," Sam drawls, eyes suddenly, sharply on Dean and his pulse kicks up for reasons unknown.

Dean's face definitely gets pinker, the freckled tips of his ears sliding dark but he doesn't say anything. Sam's chest clenches up in this funny way like the air's suddenly a little bit too thin.

"Dude, did you just ask me out on a date?"

Dean's fist collides hard with Sam's shoulder, just the right angle to make his arm feel a little bit numb all the way down. "No. Shut up," Dean snaps, fingers running through his short hair like it's even possible to push it out of his face.

"Really?" Sam had kinda sorta mostly meant the date thing as a joke but… The wind rustles loudly around his ears, orangey leaves clacking together overhead and the early-to-brown ones fall crisply to the ground, skittering around their feet. They've made it all the way to the baseball practice field in silence and once they round the looming bulk of the gymnasium it'll be time for Sam to go; he's running later than usual as is, but he can't really bring himself to care.

He feels strangely bold, like maybe because Dean's doing the 'Sam' thing and being all blushy and shy, Sam has to be 'Dean' for them or something, so he does; he says the most 'Dean' thing he can think of, "If you wanted head, you coulda just asked."

His brother actually trips over his own two feet; manages to catch himself before he falls flat on his face, but still. Could they go 'Freaky Friday' without knowing about it?

"I- uh, I…" Dean flounders, clearing his throat around the buildup of non-sensical sound. They're at the edge of the brick building, one more step forward and they'll be able to see kids rushing up the front steps, fear of tardiness on their heels like the hounds of hell. Sam lingers at the corner, feeling like if he walks away now, this whatever it is Dean's driving at is never gonna happen again. Does Dean seriously want Sam to give him a blow job? And why doesn't Sam feel more freaked out about that idea?

In the second Sam peeked around the gym to check the time on big clock in front of the school, Dean managed to get himself back together, and now he's standing there like a switch flipped, all over-confident, in control Dean.

"Kinda thought we could start with the making out," he smirks, and if there's something a little strained in his voice, Sam's brain doesn't have the power to contemplate it because just like that, face still pink from a blush that just won't fade, Dean leans in and presses his lips against Sam's.

They've never kissed before, not like 'kissed' kissed. They'd peck each other on the lips or the cheek when they were younger, before Dean decided it was embarrassing and they weren't gonna anymore, but never anything like this.

Dean's lips are soft, plusher than any girl Sam's ever kissed - not that there have been many - the spit from where he'd licked them slick is cool from the air for a second before it heats up between their mouths. His brother's big fingers just barely brush Sam's jaw, pulling him into it with just the tiniest suggestion of pressure, easy to pull away from if Sam wanted to. He doesn't. He's not sure if he really wants to kiss Dean, but he knows he doesn't want to stop, which makes just about as much sense as any of the rest of this. Mostly he's just caught up thinking about how Dean's probably been kissed really good by a whole bunch of girls who know what they're doing and how Sam probably sucks.

There's this hot, incredible drag of Dean's tongue across Sam's bottom lip and he never knew his mouth was connected directly to his cock before, but by the way blood dumps instantly, painfully, into his dick, it is. Dean pulls back slowly, separating them by fractions or maybe time just slowed down in the middle of the kiss somewhere. Either way, Sam almost jumps out of his skin when the bell rings, snapping back to reality.

That's when he places it, for the first time ever; that thing in the way Dean looks at him - not all of it, but the part of the thing that keeps messing Sam up - it's the same way he looked at girls, the ones he really wanted, back when he used to care about them just a little bit.

The immediate rush of insult - Sam's not a freakin' girl! - gets all mixed up with a surge of elation because Dean hasn't looked at anybody that way in a long time, followed by a slimy roll of dread – THIS IS INCEST! Not just almost-accidental rubbing, but straight up incest! - that doesn't have nearly enough force to quell the other two.

Dean's eyes are wide pupilled and glassy, his lips shiny and slightly parted and holy hell Sam wants them back right fucking now. And then the moment snaps, Dean's eyes falling to the ground - this nervous thing is just freaky as all get out - and he scuffs the dirt up with the toe of his boot, lightly tapping Sam's tennis shoe with it once.

"So, um… Have a good day," Dean says too quickly, shoving against the brick wall to push himself into motion. Sam stands there on the back side of the gym, just watching him long after Dean’s disappeared into the trees.

***

It's a long day at school, though Sam has no clue about anything that actually happened. He gets called on a couple of times because teachers are so used to him having the answers; turns out 'The Lusitania' is not the solution to '2X x 3XY = 8', who knew?

He's been trying to figure out, well, pretty much anything, because it would be really nice to have the answer to at least one of the questions that ended up dumped in his lap this morning. Does he want Dean - like WANT him? Is that even ok if he does? And what happens if he doesn't? Could things ever be the same again? Does Dean want, like, a thing between them, or is Sam just another somebody? And how the hell does he handle it if Dean's just looking for a good time? How does he handle it if Dean wants more?

He's no closer to an answer, any answer, by the time the bell rings again and he drags his feet the whole way home just to buy more time. He's still standing in front of the rental faster than he expected to be, watching the sun glint off of the Impala as the bleach-commercial-white clouds shift overhead.

Sam could run, not like, ‘away’ or anything, but just run and hide for a little while, until dark or something. Then maybe he could say he has a lot of homework and go to bed really early. Except Dean would probably take that to mean something, that Sam didn't want him or something like that, and then everything would be all messed up anyway.

There's no way to avoid it, things are gonna be all fucked to hell no matter what he does.

There's this ball of weight in the back of his throat that he just can't seem to swallow, or maybe that's just his throat closing up. It's hard to tell if it gets better or worse as he keys his way into the apartment, fingers goddamn trembling the way they never do when he's facing down some evil thing in the dark.

Dean's slumped on the couch, a marked up stack of newspapers on the floor beside him and what sounds like Oprah on the TV before it clicks over hastily as Sam shuts the door.

"Hey," Dean says, forced-kinda happy. He clears his throat and shifts on the pitted couch, moving around again like he can't get comfortable with Sam’s eyes looking at him. And he is looking, can't seem to do anything but look, like he's really seeing Dean for the first time ever.

Dean's good looking, sure, Sam's had that said to him too many times by waitresses and random girls at school and freakin' Dean himself to not be aware of that little tidbit. He just never, like, NOTICED before; how Dean's face is so delicate and sharp, almost girly but so far from it at the same time, how the tips of his hair and his eyelashes catch golden in the afternoon light streaming through the window, how his lips are pillowy, the perfect shade of pink like an advertisement for sins you shouldn't want and the bottle green of his eyes - little flecks of gold there, too that Sam knows like the back of his own hand - thin around a widening pupil like an over-sucked lime Lifesaver. He's beautiful, strong all over, in ways other people will never see, and there were questions, Sam remembers there being questions, but he can't seem to remember why they were important any more.

"Y-… you ok, Sam?" Dean whispers like a dying prayer. Sam can see his brother's chest heaving like a marathon runner even though he's just sitting there, eyes darting up and down and all over Sam like the answer's written somewhere on his body and Dean has to find it.

Sam's backpack hits the floor with a thud-tap-tap-tap as the crappy zipper falls open again and pens and paper and a worn out novel falls free. Dean watches him stalk closer, all the bravery of a wounded gazelle on his face as Sam moves in, but he doesn't try and get up or get away, just slinks further back into the spring-shot cushions like he expects Sam to beat him to death, expects to deserve it.

Sam's knees dip into the padding of the seat on either side of his brother's body and his mind helpfully supplies the word 'straddle' but he's mostly ignoring his brain at the moment. He's sitting on Dean's lap, reverse of the way they used to do it when Dean would bounce Sam on his knees and that's a fucking ridiculous thought to have right now, no wonder he's ignoring his brain.

Dean's hands spread wide, moving farther away from Sam's body like they're escaping, or maybe trying not to push, who knows.

"Sammy," really does sound like a death-rattle, choked and hoarse and breathy and that's not the way Sam wants it; he wants it deep and gravely and rich like whiskey-soaked velvet - the way he's heard Dean sound with girls.

He asks for it with his lips on Dean's, licking at the seam of Dean's mouth until it opens for him and tries to coax the noises he wants straight out of Dean's throat with his tongue. Dean gives them willingly, the way he always gives for Sam, keeping himself perfectly still while Sam maps out his big brother's mouth with his tongue, his fingers getting lost in the prickly softness of Dean's hair.

Dean isn't moving, like if he does, Sam will startle and run, but Sam's pretty sure he's not capable of even considering getting off of Dean's lap so he frees up one of his own hands to find Dean's, pulls his brother's palm up to settle on Sam's hip and that seem like all the permission Dean needs.

His fingers are all over Sam, not hard and touch-hungry the way they are when they rub off on each other, but gentle and exploring as if every square inch of Sam's skin is as important and necessary to him as air itself. They slide up under Sam's shirt, tangle in his hair, run up and down his denim-clad thighs, his calves, petting at the little knob of bone where his ankle disappears into his sock.

The whole time Dean's kissing him and it's so much better than any of the girls Sam's kissed, it doesn't even seem fair to use the same word for it. Dean tilts for him, licks at him, turns until it's the perfect angle to seal their mouths together and sucks on Sam's tongue. Sam’s dick's been more than a little interested in the proceedings from the beginning and now it's tense and throbbing inside the taut stretch of his jeans.

"Sammy, Sammy," Dean pants, the words smudged between their lips in panting, desperate breaths. Sam just moans for it, not sure he remembers how to do anything else. His chest is all fluttery and light like his lungs are full of helium and keep wanting to float right up out of his body.

Dean's hands slide down Sam's spine, lingering at the small of his back before hesitantly inching their way onto his ass as if Dean hasn't had his hands plastered all over it almost nightly for months. His fingers splay over the curve of Sam's backside, pulling him further forward on Dean's lap until their bodies are tight together from mouth to groin. The hard line of heat pressing up into Sam's thigh is somehow heart-stoppingly fantastic, even though he's felt Dean's hard-on plenty of times by now, and he gasps with the feeling of it, rocking down. Dean groans, darts back in to kiss Sam again, feeding at his mouth like a hummingbird in fast, flittery little presses.

"Get it out, get it out," Sam urges breathlessly. He swallows thickly, his whole mouth feeling blood-heavy and slow and distressingly empty without Dean's tongue inside. Dean almost completely ignores him in favor of filling that emptiness up again with slick, wet muscle until Sam paws fruitlessly at Dean's pants. Then his brother's fingers are all tangled up with Sam's tugging at the button and zipper almost as feebly as Sam but finally managing to get it undone. Sam's got his hand inside in a flash, pulling out Dean's dick roughly enough that his brother hisses, but his hips buck up for it anyway and fuck if that doesn't just turn Sam on even more.

It's bizarre and new and wonderful, touching Dean's bare cock, holding it in his hand without any of the tacit rules they operate under about ‘through the underwear’ and ‘only bodies, not hands’. Dean's flesh is so hot, so firm in his palm and getting even harder, everything so similar to Sam's own aching cock and at the same time deliciously alien. Dean's thicker than Sam is, but maybe not quite as long, the skin ruddier and almost purple with blood where Sam's is always more furiously pink. It's wetter too, though in a way Sam knew that from how Dean always soaks through his shorts, but actually seeing the blurbles of precome working out of the tip is a whole new kind of thrill; even better when he gives it a barely-there stroke and watches more clear fluid squeeze out with the motion.

Sam realizes suddenly that he's staring and Dean's got that nervous look on his face again, a complete contradiction to the kissed swell of his lips and the sweaty red flush working its way down his neck. Sam tries to smile softly and feels it turn into something darker on his face, like one of Dean's smirks, but it wipes the worry right out of his brother's expression, fills it up with deep heat that goes right to Sam's trapped cock.

And he has to pull it out, can't stand not to. His fingers fumble on the zipper, loses his grip on the little metal tab twice before he finally gets it down, his dick trying to climb out of the opening in his pants all on its own. Dean groans and humps up again under him when the length comes free of denim, tenting the worn cotton of his boxers, a flash of pink showing through the wet spot at the head where his slick had made the fabric translucent. A wave of relief crashes over him once his cock's finally through the slit of his shorts, matching up with a wave of hunger at the sheer proximity of Dean.

His brother's breath catches - he's learned that's kind of a Dean thing during sex stuff, but it still makes Sam jolt with concern every time - and he's looking up at Sam about as wide-eyed and awestruck as Sam feels. All his says, though, is "Sammy."

Their lips crash together again like magnets, Sam's hand going instinctively for Dean's cock at the same time his brother bats Sam's hand away from his own dick. Sam chokes on air with the first stroke of Dean's fist up his length, his hand not as wide as Sam's but so strong, and so infinitely better than anything Sam's ever felt before. The electric pleasure of it crawls into him, an army of prickly little feelers crackling along the underside of his skin. Sam aches with it, feels too tiny to possibly contain it, all the feeling vibrating through him right up from his marrow.

He nips at the end of Dean's tongue as it darts in and out of his mouth, his brother moaning enthusiastically for it. It would almost be weirder if Dean didn't like it rough, but there's a blood-red charge skating up and down Sam's spine from confirming it anyway because now it's something he knows, he's seen, he's DONE to his brother.

It's a damn good thing they're both right handed, working each other's dicks in tandem in the super-heated space between them. Dean handles him like a pro, like he knows everything Sam likes even when Sam didn't know it himself; like that little circley thing he does with the pad of his thumb, working the little bundle of nerves underneath the head, just that for a second or two every few strokes and it's got Sam going crazy, even better than swiping a finger over the slit. He tries the move out on Dean too - somewhere in the back of his mind feeling self-conscious and inept - and his brother jerks, head thrown back on the sofa as he lets out of moan that stolen straight from some fuzzy late-night movie channel.

Sam's fingers are wet and sticky, covered in a sheen of precome that just keeps flowing out of Dean’s slit in tiny dribbles like a broken faucet and Sam's mouth floods with the sudden urge to taste it. Dean's close though, Sam can feel it in the way his brother hardens ever further in his hand, body tensing beneath Sam's the same way he can feel the buzz hot and tingling and ready at the base of his own spine. He's not letting go, not until they're both covered in it, sticky and filthy and so fucking good.

He can hear these clipped whines coming out of his own mouth like a hungry puppy and he doesn't even give a shit because fuck, just fuck! Dean's hand is so good, powerful and rough and just right, the way it fits around him, absolutely perfect, and he can't shut his stupid head up long enough to keep from thinking about the way other parts of Dean would feel around him too. Dean's mouth, God, Dean's mouth, with those lips and how tight they'd hold him, how soft they'd feel wrapped all the way around him, sucking down everything he has to give. And Dean's body - ass, his ass, guys do it in the ass - Sam can't even imagine, can't even fathom but he wants it so much anyway.

Dean's lips latch onto Sam's as he shifts helplessly on top of his big brother, needing more, anything, just needing to come so bad his skin's going to split open any second from all of the contained energy. And Dean… Dean inhales against Sam's mouth like he's going to suck the air right out of Sam's lungs and that's pretty freakin' strange but shit, it works, gets Sam pouring out every scrap of air he has on a ragged groan as he spurts milky come over Dean's fingers and dick and their shirts.

Dean lasts a handful of strokes longer. His mouth falls slack, head rolling back on his shoulders as he huffs out those little hiccuppy breaths that are the only sound Dean ever allows himself to make whether Dad's around to overhear or not. His come splashes over the white swaths that Sam's already covered them with, their fluids mixing into a warm, gooey mess between their bodies.

Sam slumps forward after, fingers still stroking softly up and down Dean's shaft, not so much milking him as just petting. His head's cradles in that place under Dean's chin automatically, listening to the air flow in and out of his brother's throat, loud against his ear.

Curiosity has always been a problem for Sam - maybe moreso than any of the others except stubborness - so he really can't help it, as he stares at his wet fingers, just barely brushing Dean's softening dick, that he has to lift them up for a taste. It's bitter and strong and really kind of hard to define, but it might not be bad once he got used to it.

The kiss on his forehead snaps him out of his analysis, eyes flicking up to Dean's, pulling his fingers away from his mouth a second too late. His cheeks heat back up again stupidly but Dean just grins at him, this knowing big brother look in his eyes. As fast as that, Sam's back to feeling like a dumb little kid - Dean's done this a lot, knows what to do after and Sam's probably screwing it all up but he doesn't really want to move - which instantly pings him on to annoyed. He was kind of enjoying it earlier when Dean was the one feeling nervous and stupid.

"So do you still want to go to a movie tonight," he asks, even though he has to force the words steady, "or just skip right to the blow jobs?"

Dean makes a noise like he got punched in the gut, looks kinda like it too, eyes wide and mouth open and just stares. Not quite as good as the blush, but it'll work.

Sam shimmies his way off of his brother's lap, trying to hold up his jeans and make sure not to drip on the carpet and look smug all at once. He very nearly overbalances, accidentally hooking his shoe on his brother's leg, but manages to catch himself with his mostly clean hand on the hot top of the TV. A ribbon of come drips off of his shirt and trails slowly down his stomach, gross and mucky now that it's cold.

"Dude, ugh! I need a shower," he complains, swiping at the ticklish trail of stray jizz as he straightens himself up. Maybe he should make it a policy not to take his eyes off of Dean, because it seems like every time he does now, his brother's gone through some emotional shift just to screw with Sam.

Deans sitting on the couch, elbows braced on his knees, watching Sam with that dark, smug look Sam was totally rocking a minute ago, but now just makes him nervous. Damnit.

"Alright, Sammy, one shower coming up." There's the voice Sam was looking for, and God, but it just rolls right down his spine like warm honey, trying to wake his dick up all over again.

Before he has a chance to figure out what's going on, Dean's moving, up off the couch, his shoulder plowing right into Sam's middle and lifting him into a fireman's carry.

"Dean," Sam squawks at the middle of his brother's back trying to wriggle out of Dean's hold with the cold mess of come squishing between them. Dean just pats him on the ass and carries him, laughing all the way to the bathroom.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam's kind of in love with the way Dean looks at him. It's amazing and constant but fluid at the same time, little bits and pieces of it changing with the things Sam does. He loves the way Dean looks when Sam gets out of the shower, towel slung a little lower on his hips than strictly necessary and not really bothering to use it until he's back in their bedroom, goosebumpy and hard-nippled from the water drops sliding down his skin and the freakin' dead-of-winter temperatures they're already getting because Dad moved them up for a new hunt in friggin' Maine.

He loves the way Dean looks at him across the benchseat of the Impala like Sam's the last slice of pie in existence or something and he loves the way Dean looks at him when he comes out with some obscure piece of lore on wood nymphs that ends up breaking the case. He really loves the way Dean looks at him when he sucks on his big brothers tongue like it's made of candy and he really really loves the look from when Dean did it back to him that first time and he came all over himself just from that. He loves the looks Dean gives him as he bundles up in six or seven layers and heads to school and the ones he give him when Sam trudges back in the afternoon, stomping the sludgy grey snow off of his soaked tennis shoes.

But his favorite, his absolute, no-holds-barred favorite, is the way Dean looks at him when Sam kicks off those stupid freezing sneakers, toes out of his wet socks and leaves little wet footprints all the way over to where Dean's sitting on the couch, feet propped up on the orange, plastic milkcrate they're using as a coffee table, and sinks to his knees without preamble. It's better than the kissing look, or the coming look, or even the holy-shit-your-mouth-was-made-to-blow-me look; it's the hot slink of anticipation written all over his brother's face, warring with the ever present shock like Dean never expected Sam to do this again. It's hungry, pained hope and it's the best damn look in the whole fucking world.

Sam's still not great at this, though he's pretty sure he's getting better. Dean says he likes it sloppy anyway - well, moans it really, about how 'sweetsluttyhot' Sam looks with spit and precome smeared all over his lips and dribbling down his chin - so he figures that all works out. But he's not ready to get there yet - he totally gets why girls are such fucking teases, it's fun as hell - so instead Sam bypasses the button and zipper on his brother's jeans and tilts his head a little to mouth along the blunt bulge of Dean cock.

His brother's rock hard already, and Sam's not completely convinced that Dean's ever soft for more than five minutes at a time - any time he reaches for Dean, even if it's just a casual teasing brush, he finds him full and ready, rarin' to go. It's kinda stupid-sexy.

Sam kisses his way along the distended denim, the fabric rough against his soft lips, sending a rippley little thrill through his stomach at how pink and swollen his mouth is going to look in a minute and what that does to - for - Dean. Licking at the bulge feels dirty-hot, and he knows it looks that way too from the way his brother moans, fingers finding their way into Sam's hair to play with the curls behind his ears - Dean likes to watch almost as much as he likes to get sucked. Sam lets his tongue linger and play at the head, forming a moist spot that'll only make it easier for Dean to soak through when he gets all wet again. The vibrations from a quick scrape of teeth gets Dean bucking up, gasping Sam's name, and that makes him shiver way more than the cold outside ever could.

His tongue feels hot and dry, the fabric cool and moist with saliva by the time Sam's satisfied enough to move on. After plenty of practicing, he's learned to undo the button and zipper on Dean's jeans with him mouth which absolutely never fails to make his brother curse a blue streak and bite his lip. The zipper parts under the force of Dean's dick - he's pretty much stopped wearing underwear from what Sam can tell; sometimes that thought hits him when Dean's cooking or filling up the gas tank or something and Sam has to conjugate some Latin verbs to keep from popping a boner - slipping out to greet him, hot shaft grazing his cheek with its silky-soft skin.

Sam lets his open mouth slide up and down the side of it, the image of a harmonica makes him want to laugh, but he holds it back because getting his mouth on Dean's beautiful dick - he's not sure when he decided it was beautiful, but it definitely is - is no laughing matter. At the head he purses his lips and cups his tongue when he sucks so it makes this loud, kind of sick, slurping noise that Dean loves. It earns him another generous spurt of precome across his lips, and fuck if that's not the most addictive thing he's ever tasted.

After that he can't resist taking it in, sucking down as much as he can in one go - which isn't much but he's trying. He went to the library in the last town they were in and snuck into the human sexuality section. As far as he could tell it was mostly those pornos women read with the shirtless guys with flowy hair on the cover, but he found one book about 'pleasing you man' and ever since then he's been trying out those techniques to soften your gag reflex. It's working ok, and Dean seems like he'd be happy with just about anything Sam did anyway.

The head feels weird tapping at the back of his throat, but a kind of good weird that he can't quite explain so he lets it push there on every bob, moving his head so it massages at the spot and makes it a little sore for later when Dad comes back from interviewing witnesses and Sam won't be able to get his mouth on Dean again. He likes to be able to swallow later in the night and feel it, even though Dean won't let him actually go down again with Dad just on the other side of the wall. He's never figured out how blow jobs in the next room are worse than rubbing off when Dad's in the next bed, but Dean put his foot down right at the beginning and arguing usually means he's not even going to get to rub off on Dean, so Sam lets it go.

His thumb rides the vein on the underside while he mirrors the pressure with his tongue and Dean groans and whispers 'just like that- gonna, Sammy, gonna'. Dean always warns him, always uses the hands slipping restlessly through Sam's hair to try and pull him off like Sam can't feel the way Dean gets harder and his balls draw up, like he hasn't spent most of the day fantasizing about his big brother's cock stretching his lips and a load of hot, bitter come on his tongue. Sam just sucks harder.

There's this second, just one, before he blows, when Dean switches from panicked attempts to pull Sam off to frantically pushing him down. It's Sam's favorite part, sends a shockwave of desert heat through his body every single time to know that Dean could force him to take it all and one day soon he's going to work up to asking for it just like that.

But today he just opens up and lets the crown press hard at the softness of his throat before the warm splash of come soothes it and he swallows it all down with obscene gulping sounds.

He works his jeans open and down his hips along with his boxers in the time it takes Dean to be able to force his eyes open again. Settling over his brother's lap always feels right and warm and good and it's even better when Dean's hands slide under the waistband of Sam's open jeans - one in front, one in back - and start touching him.

He'll never get over how strong Dean's hand is wrapped around his cock, how it works him like that's what it was designed for and sometimes he's pretty sure it was. The one down the back is reasonably new though, only the last week or so since Dean got brave enough to try it.

At first it's just soft petting at the stretch of muscle behind his balls, building up to steady pressure that makes Sam's stomach feel electrified. Then hesitantly, Dean starts moving his finger backward, sliding along the cleft of Sam's ass and further up until it's resting over the pucker of his hole. Dean's never gone any further than this, never actually pushed in even though Sam knows that's what they're working up to and sometimes he wants to just hump back into it and force Dean's finger inside, but he's usually too preoccupied with the magical things Dean does to his cock to think too much about it.

It's one of those times again; Dean's hand stroke, stroke, twisting him just the right way, just the right rhythm, and that wheeling pressure at his hole and it's too much. Sam feels his balls draw up tight, his body impossibly hot for a second until it's cold instead and then he can't feel a thing besides the jarring pump of come wrenching itself from his body.

Sam slumps forward, nestles his head against Dean's neck and breathes in the smell of cheap fabric softener and the clean sweat of sex. They'll stay that way until one of them can get it up again or they hear the sound of Dad's truck pulling up, whichever comes first.

***

The bedroom door slams shut, followed not five second later by an echo of it from the front door. It's amazing how fast that sound gets old. There's a long silence after that, and it's weird how, for all that Dean is the boisterous one in the family, the bright, shiny firecracker always drawing the attention, it's in the silences that Sam hears him the most.

Sam's sick of feeling this way, like he can't control anything, including himself and the things that come out of his mouth. He doesn't want to fight with Dad, not really, because he knows it's not going to change things anyway. He'd rather be like Dean and want the hunt, want the life, not resent their father always uprooting them and making promises he won’t even try to keep and putting all of their lives on the line for a grudge almost as old as Sam is. But that's not the way things are, and it seems like more and more, when Dean goes along and follows orders, Sam's rage swells big enough for the both of them.

Not like Dad's any better; he's just as much of a fucking 'moody teenager' as Sam is, running off, running away, forget that he's supposed to be the grown up and taking care of them and -

The bedroom door clicks open softly, and even laid out on his belly with his face shoved in the pillow, Sam knows Dean's standing there watching him. For some stupid reason, his throat goes tight; that shaky feeling welling up in his stomach like he's going to cry any second and godfuckingdamnit, why can't he control fucking anything!

The sheets rustle and the mattress dips, then it's the long line of heat from Dean's body pressed up against him, partway on top of him, and Dean's warm breath ruffling the hair on the back of his neck. Something perverse and pissed off makes Sam jerk, not far, not away, just a silent 'don't touch me' and he doesn't know if that's to punish Dean or himself.

"Don't be like that, Sammy," Dean whispers, pulling Sam back against his body with a hand spanning his chest. They just lay like that, Dean's heartbeat thudding into Sam's spine too fast to pretend he didn't care about the shouting match between Sam and Dad that had very nearly come to blows. Again. But Sam can hear his brother thinking, knows all the admonitions and placations Dean would tell him if Sam started to vent and it's almost worse to know it and not have them voiced, so he says,

"What if they can't help it?"

Like almost everything that comes out of his mouth nowadays, he's not really sure that's what he meant to say, but it's been eating at him for a while now, so maybe its better that it's out.

"What?"

"The monsters. The stuff we hunt," Sam explains dully to the dark stretch of wall in front of his face, "What if they can't help the stuff they do? What if it just happens without them meaning to and they just can't stop it?"

Dean's quiet for a minute and Sam can hear himself swallow heavily in the silence.

"Doesn't matter why," his brother says at last, an air of finality in his voice.

"It does if you're one of them."

"Sam," Dean sighs in frustration, annoyance bleeding through, "what the fuck are you talking about?"

Sam's not sure if he wants to fight again or cry or just curl up in the corner and forget he ever said anything at all, but it's clawing desperately at him now, wanting to climb right out of him of its own accord so at least he can try to make it make sense.

"What if... what if there's something wrong with me? Like, what if spending all of this time around them or whatever... What's really the difference in them and us, you know? Besides what we're hunting after."

"What's the difference?" He knew this was coming from the way Dean's body had tensed up behind him, but it still feels a lot like ripping off a layer of skin when Dean shoves up off the bed, "The difference is that we're human! We're good, we're goddamn heroes, Sam! That's the fucking difference!" Dean grabs him by the shoulder forces him to turn over but Sam stubbornly refuses to meet his brother's angry eyes. "Look at me. Hey! Look at me right the fuck now, Sam. There's nothing wrong with you or me or Dad, ok? So just fucking drop it."

Dean pulls his hand from Sam's shoulder like it burned, practically flinging himself toward the door and the stupid, fearful hurt wells up before Sam can stop it, the idea of another door slamming shut on the last - only - good thing in his life.

"Dean, wait! Don't... don't go, okay? I'm sorry." It peters off toward silence at the end, spoken directly to his own knees, curled up close to him on the mattress.

He can hear Dean breathing, deep and obviously controlled but he doesn't move any futher away. Doesn't move any closer either, but Sam will take what he can get.

Finally Dean sighs, "Sammy," and sits heavily on the foot of the bed, avoiding the broken spring on instinct. "Is this... is it about..." Dean stalls out and Sam risks a glance at him. There's nothing but the yellow light from the 60 watt in the hallway pouring in to illuminate Dean, but he looks kind of angelic in the glow. And sad. Nineteen going on ninety.

Dean braces his elbows on his thighs, face dipping down into the cradle of his own hands and Sam aches in ways he doesn't have the words for.

"If you want to stop..." Dean croaks out, the sound muffled by his hands. It sends something sharp and jagged rocketing through Sam's chest, makes him feel like he's going to puke all over the bed like he did that time when he got the flu and was too little to make it to the bathroom fast enough. He wonders if Dean would clean him up this time too, with steady hands and warm words and knowing that the answer might be 'no' is what finally send the hot stinging tears down his cheeks.

"No, no. God, never, no." He launches himself across the bed to bury his face in Dean's shoulder, pawing at his brother's shirt. "Please no, Dean, please."

Sam's wrapped up in Dean's arms in seconds, pulled right into his lap, so different from earlier but no less right; held like a little kid and he's not even close to minding.

"Shh. C'mere. Yeah, that's it," Dean maneuvers them around until they're laid out flat again, Sam pressed in tight to his side and all but climbing up his brother's body. "My baby. Love you so much, baby boy. Shh."

He cries until his head throbs, until his eyes are puffy and aching and he's forgotten exactly what started it off, just knows that he'd rather die than give up any of what he has here in Dean's arms.

Sam's worn out by the time it's over, feeling loose and empty with his cheek pressed into the soaked spot on Dean's shirt. Dean leans out a little bit to look down at Sam's face, thumbs away the wetness under Sam's nose which is pretty sick but then Dean's done plenty worse for him.

"Feel better?" he asks softly and all Sam can do is nod. "Good. C'mon, let's just... let's just hit the hay, alright? Long fuckin’ day." Carefully he dislodges Sam from his shoulder, sliding one hand up to support Sam's head down to the pillow like he really is a little kid but he hasn't got the energy or the will to complain.

Dean doesn't go far, stands up long enough to strip out of his shirt and jeans before he slide back into bed, under the covers this time. It takes a little fumbling for Sam to get himself undressed even with Dean's help; his whole body feeling clumsy and disconnected. Then finally he's able to slide into bed too, his naked body pressed warm and soothing against Dean's.

They hold on facing each other, one of Sam's legs caught between Dean's, his brother's arms around his shoulders while his own are pressed flat to Dean's back. He wants to shut up and rest, maybe fall asleep kissing Dean, but he has to ask now or he'll always wonder.

"Do you- You don't wanna stop right? I mean, this all isn't just for me, is it?" It would be nice if he didn't sound so sheepish when he says it, if he could at least pretend to believe that he can fathom Dean actually wanting him.

"No." Dean's voice is steady and sure, fingers sliding into Sam's hair, down the ridges of his spine. "I could never want to stop. But I would if-" Sam cuts him off by shaking his head vehemently, the achy pulse of pressure behind his eyelids making him wince. Dean's sigh sounds like relief.

His hands roam aimlessly over Sam's back, tracing his moles and the map of small scars he's earned in hunts and sparring and his own stupid clumsiness over the years. "Your skin," Dean whispers, mouth moving close enough to Sam's to feel the heat of his breath "God, your body. Make me crazy, Sammy. Can't hardly keep my hands off you."

Dean kisses him softly, not tentative, just gentle, lapping little wet spots onto Sam's lips like a baby kitten.

"You could do anything, you know," Sam says in a soft breath, pressing in for another, slightly wetter kiss, "Anything you wanted. I'd let you."

Dean doesn't say anything, just pulls him in tighter and licks into Sam's mouth. Sam has to break the kiss to mumble against Dean's chin, because he needs Dean to hear this, "You could use your fingers, like you've wanted to. Or more. You could- You could be inside me if you wanted. It's ok."

His brother makes a sound like the bastard child of a groan and a whimper and presses his lips more fiercely against Sam's, cupping the back of his head like he's going to feed Sam into himself.

"Yeah," Dean pants into the space between them, hard cock riding smoothly along Sam's hipbone.

Dean's hand dips down between Sam's ass cheeks and he can't help the startled breath he draws.

"Shh, it's okay. Just this, okay?" Dean asks breathlessly, rubbing the pad of one finger against Sam's hole just like the other times. Sam nods, something jittery and too hot welling up inside so he quenches it in the ruthless grind of his dick against Dean's thigh mimicking his brother’s thrusts.

The air's cold here, they never have a heater that really works right, but it's sweltering under the covers, with both of their bodies twisting and writhing against one another. Sweat slicks their skin, their tongues as they kiss and taste each other, panting through the friction and heat, the searing want. The air's filled with the sounds of Sam's little whimpers and moans, Dean's quiet gasps.

The drag of skin of skin is perfect and the press at Sam's hole stops feeling nerve-wracking and starts feeling like not enough. And then it’s just right, because Dean pushes in, just a tiny bit probably but the sensation is overwhelming, shattering through Sam’s over sensitized body and tearing the orgasm out of him in coughs of stunned breath. Dean wriggles his finger a little and Sam shudders, overcome, while his big brother spills all over his skin.

Dean kisses him through the aftershocks and beyond, kisses him until Sam's forgotten how to do anything else and it's kind of the most wonderful thing ever.

They don't say anything else about it, about any of the things they said that night. They wake up the next morning and Sam showers and gets dressed and Dean makes coffee and pours Sam a bowl of generic brand Cheerios. They don't say anything about it when Sam bundles up and shoves his feet back into tennis shoes that haven't been dry since they got to Maine and they don't say anything about it when Sam takes Dean up on the offer of a ride to school. They don't say it, but when they pull up in front of the school and Sam opens the door on a painful gust of cold air he sees it in the way Dean looks at him, and it's very very good.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean's eyes are wide and dark as they watch him, glinting in the all but nonexistent light. His breathing is almost as heavy and fast as Sam's is, bare chest heaving against the backdrop of the Impala's windows, frosted over with the fug of their breath and the cool spring air outside.

His big brother grins deviously and licks his swollen lips. White heat explodes along Sam's nerves, prickling along his skin like rain and broken glass and he can't keep his neck craned back anymore, has to face forward as his sweaty palms skid on the vinyl of the backseat, trying to keep himself upright. Sam jolts as another wave of sensation floods him bouncing through his system and echoing back on itself like ripples in a pond and Dean just does it again; crooks his fingers just so, a slow, smooth caress inside his body, punctuated by another hard thrust of his hand. He's a man on a goddamn mission and Sam's afraid he's not going to have any braincells left by the time it's over.

Dean's fingers pick up a steady in and out for a minute, just enough for Sam to get a feel for the rhythm, three fingers down to two and then one so his hole clenches and jumps, seeking that fullness again. His brother gives it to him, all three again, and flirts at the ring of muscle with his pinkie so Sam's eyes roll back in his head. Sometimes he thinks they're going to work up to fisting before Dean will finally give in and fuck him.

Right now he's got bigger problems to worry about, like the one aching, untouched, between his legs. He's been right on the edge for what feels like years, balls drawn up tight and ready, so close and never quite enough because Dean won't let him get a hand on his own damn dick. One quick stroke would be all it took and if he didn't need both arms to stay balanced from the constant, erratic pound of Dean's hand against him, inside him, if it weren't for the way Dean's got his other hand gripped around Sam's hip so he can't rub himself down against the seat, already slicked with the drool of precome dripping from him, he'd just do it himself. But he can't and Dean's not going to do it for him and there's no way this is going to work, and he just can't get there.

He says as much, gasps it really, into the muggy, sex-stained air, but Dean just shushes him and rubs soothing circles against Sam's hip with his thumb, maddeningly far away from where he needs it most.

"Yes, you can, Sammy. You're so close, baby boy. So good for me, gonna come just like this, so hot." Dean licks a broad stripe up the sweat-slick curve of Sam's spine and all he can do is sob out a breath in reply, every inch of his body straining and wanting.

Dean's free hand slides steadily up Sam's side, crossed his chest to draw slow-burning lines with blunt fingernails so Sam hisses and arches. Just a little friction, just a little anything and he'll be there, but that's not the way Dean wants it and Sam's pretty sure it's going to fucking kill him. He's about four seconds away from crying.

His brother's hands are relentless though, the one stretch-flexing at his hole, pulling him apart and pounding the bundle on nerves inside until it's a friggin’ miracle that he's still holding his own weight while the other slicks through the sheen of sweat on his neck, up over his jaw to paint his lips with the taste of his own salty skin.

He's not even thinking about it when he opens his mouth for it, lets those fingers slide inside him the way the others are filling him up below; hell, he doesn't even have the brain power to remember how to suck until the pads of Dean's fingers massage his tongue. Second nature it kicks in and he closes his lips around the two thick digits Dean's giving him, pulls on them with his mouth.

Like a switch flipped, everything clicks into place, except instead of a click it's a slam and it hits Sam like a cannonball, his whole body giving way under the force of the razor-edged pleasure stripping him raw. His senses are all mixed up together; the taste of Dean skin and the smell of their sweat and the hard flex of fingers in his channel and the soul-searing throb as each wave of come pulses out of him, all mixing into a single sensation that steals his breath and his sight.

There's a very good chance that Sam blacks out there for a second, because the next thing he's really aware of are the stripes of liquid heat marking his back as his brother grunts out his own orgasm.

"Fuck, oh fuck," Dean pants on repeat for a long time, finally branching out to "That was... huh... hottest thing ever."

Sam can't seem to muster the energy to open his eyes so he mumbles a vague noise against the slippery vinyl against his cheek, the top of his head aching slightly where it's resting against the door panel. He groans, losing his air in scraps when Dean lays down mostly on top of him, everything overwarm and wet with perspiration and come. He doesn't even have the will to complain because Dean's licking the sweat on the back of his neck and slurring sweet, garbled praise into his skin between stuttered breaths.

"Jesus, baby, nobody turns me on like you do. So hot. So fucking sexy. God, you came so hard, Sammy. Like a fucking pornstar. Love you so much.”

Dean's got pretty much two settings after they mess around - fucked silent, and out of his head babbling. They're both pretty fun actually, and worth the trouble of getting there, but Sam likes the second one better; close to sixteen years of living on nothing but roadside greasy spoons and Dean's affection make him glow under the weight of those soft, sex-doped words like nothing else in the world. <br><br> <br><br>

Eventually his bother subsides into nothing but blessed-out hums, sucking and nipping languidly at whatever bit of Sam's body he can reach. It's round about the same time Sam's body starts to come back on line enough to process that he's sandwiched between his own load of jizz on the seat and Dean's on his back and it's rapidly becoming gross in the still slightly cool air around them. He grumbles and jerks his hips back enough to keep Dean from falling into a doze - his brother can sleep practically anywhere, anytime – and he begins peeling himself off of Sam with only a vaguely disgruntled noise.

Sam's much less effective at disguising his own displeased sounds as his come strings between his body and the car, snapping cold and clammy against his skin. Dean hands him a rag, so stained with motor oil and brake fluid it’s hard to see the splotches of it's original red peeking through. Tomorrow Dean will probably make Sam go out and help him detail the car, clean the seats properly - and make sure the sex smell is aired out - but for now he just mops up the sticky mess with a few cursory swipes once he's finished cleaning off his back and stomach as best he can.

Heavy arms drape around Sam's shoulders and Dean pulls him back so they’re slotted close again, kneeling on the seat, back to chest. His eyes are still dark and hazy with pleasure, but the look he smiles at Sam with is nothing but pride.

Yeah, it's probably a special kind of fucked up that what earns that proud look from his big brother is the fact that Sam just came like a freight train from nothing but fingers in his mouth and ass, but then again, almost all of the things Dean's ever been proud of him for would make normal people hide their faces in shame, so Sam doesn't really let it bother him.

***

The crash of ceramic breaking against the wall is barely audible over the phantom wind swirling around Sam's ears. He can feel the tiny chibbles of what he thinks was a vase pelt his skin though, the warm trickle as one of the bigger shards breaks the skin on the side of his neck. There's dust in his eyes, rasping against his corneas like sandpaper every time he blinks. It makes him squint through his eyelashes for protection and catches in his throat when he sucks in a breath. He locks it all out and tries to remember when he was in the incantation; hard to do when a part of his mind is wandering to some other part of the house where Dad and Dean are, wondering if they're faring any better.

It's his first official hunt, just a simple poltergeist job Dad said, and Sam's already managed to get himself flung into a wall and drug halfway across the house as the bedroom door slammed shut on Dean's panicked face, chasing after Sam and the invisible force. At least all of the Latin Dad drilled into them month after month is finally coming in handy, though he'd just assume avoid ever having to admit that out loud if he can help it.

An antique chair hurls itself across the room at him, and he manages to jump out of the way almost completely, only clipping his ribs on the arm of it before the wood smashes against the ornate stone fireplace. Sam grabs the poker from the set on the hearth – pure dumb luck that the thing hasn't tried to throw those at him yet - and takes a grandslam swing at the plaster wall, opening up a nice hole for him to grab the hex bag out of his jeans pocket and shove it inside.

Fast as lightning, everything stops. Furniture and nick-knacks become subject to gravity again and clatter to the ground, the dust settles, the air stills. Sam allows himself one second to revel in triumph before he's tearing for the door, poker still in hand in case Dad and Dean need a hand.

He hasn't even got a finger on the door before it bursts inward, splintering on it's hinges because apparently his big brother couldn't be bothered by things like doorknobs when he could just kick his way into a room. Dean doesn't pause, just barrels right on until he's tackled Sam to the ground, the air puffing out of him in one heavy grunt as he takes Dean's weight suddenly. He hardly notices it beyond the rush of relief flooding his system - Dean's ok.

Big hands span Sam's face, thumbs catching under his cheekbones and forcing him to look into his brother's wild, furious eyes for a moment before the touch slides down his neck over his chest, trialing back up to turn Sam's head and check the stinging cut from that ceramic shard. Then it's nothing but bone-grating pressure on his jaw as Dean grips his chin manically in one hand.

"Don't you EVER fucking do that to me again," Dean’s grip is bruising, and he gives Sam’s head a jarring shake for emphasis, "You understand me? Never."

And Sam would argue here, really he would, because it's not his fucking fault the poltergeist grabbed him and he did a damn fine job with the hex bag thankyouverymuch so there's no part of this he could possibly be blamed for, except that he can't exactly move his jaw and then it’s a moot point anyway because Dean's mouth is covering his, biting and licking at Sam's lips until Dean's hand finally releases him and he can open up enough to let his brother plunder his mouth fully.

It's like fire coursing through his veins, the leftover spike of fear-adrenaline getting swamped in heat and lust and the reassurance that Dean's alive and safe and they fucking made it through. So all Sam does is moan and arch up against where Dean's straddling his hips, both of their wildly inappropriate erections grinding together through dusty denim. His hands claw their way under Dean's damp shirt, the sudden need to feel that sweat-tacky skin overwhelming him. The floor is hard and littered with broken bits of wood and plaster and it grates against his skull as he undulates against his brother and if it's not the best damn thing he's ever felt then he doesn't know what is.

It's almost too late by the time he picks up on his father's voice, the heavy fall of boots in the hallway, running toward them and Dean's too busy trying to swallow Sam's tongue to notice at all. Without the rush pounding through him and the years of hand to hand training, he'd never be able to do it, but he manages to hook his arm around his brother's knee at the same time that he surges upward. The copper tang of blood explodes in his mouth as the move busts at least his and probably Dean's lip too, but at least his brother is sprawled awkwardly on the floor in front of him instead of on top of him by the time their father hits the doorway.

Dad's eyes roam over Sam quickly and he can see the mental cataloguing of injuries before that gaze swoops over to give Dean the same treatment; not an ounce of suspicion there. If Sam grins too wide in relief, well, he just finished his first hunt; he's allowed to smile like an idiot.

Later, when he's sitting on the end of the double bed he'll be sharing with Dean for the night, his hand wet with the cool condensation from the beer cradled in his palm, he's still grinning. It's not his first beer, but it's the first his father knows about; his first drink as a hunter and even if he bitches about the life - and he knows that's not going to stop just because he might be in on the hunts every now and again from here on out - it's still kind of cool for a second to be somebody other than ‘little Sammy’ in his Dad's eyes. It makes him feel warm and satisfied and the bruised ribs and stinging cuts seem to fade to the background.

Yeah, it's good the way his father looks at him, but it's nothing at all compared to all the love and pride and promise in Dean's - the crinkle at the corner of his eyes and the smirk that reopens to cut on his lip that Sam desperately wants to lick - because no one will ever look at him the way Dean does. And that's more than Sam could ever dream of.


	5. Chapter 5

In the spring, Sam turns sixteen. He's had a fake drivers license since he was fourteen and finally got tall enough to pull it off, so there's not much special to do for his birthday. He kind of thought he and Dean might finally have real, honest to God sex as a birthday present, but Dean seems kind of nervous about the actual act, despite jumping at the chance to do just about anything else he can think of to Sam.

Spring is also when they live in Wyoming for almost three weeks while Dad hunts down a windigo; which he insists is dangerous enough that he needs someone else with him, but way too dangerous for Sam to come along - as if he didn't have more survival skills by the time he was six than most adults do in their lifetime. They're in town two days - long enough to get an apartment set up, since schools tend to frown on students living in motels, and to get Sam signed up for said school - before Dad takes off on the hunt, this time with Dean in tow.

It's not that unusual; Dean's a full-time part of the family business now, but it's the longest hunt they've gone on since things really got going between Sam and his brother, and somehow it hurts even worse this time when he stands in the middle of their all-but-empty, rented living room and deliberately does not watch the Impala drive away.

One week, Dad had promised, not a day more, which meant it would be two at least and maybe up to a month before they actually came back. The days had never stretched out so long and bleak before and long after the sun sinks below the horizon and the room darkens around him, Sam just stands there on the stained shag carpet, aimless for the first time he can ever remember.

The night drags on endlessly, every light in the place turned on to combat the oppressive feel of emptiness that fills the apartment. He remembers being afraid of the dark when he was little, back before he knew that the things that go bump were real and scarier than he could ever imagine, and it's exactly the same now. Everything seems too open, too exposed in a way it never has when Dad and Dean went off on a hunt before. Before it was always a day or two, every minute of it spent worrying if they'd come back, but knowing that the answer would be just around a few ticks of the clock away each time.

It's not like that now, because they're not coming back, not for days and days and it's like Sam can feel every inch of the distance. If he sleeps at all, it's minutes at a time, and it's more of a relief than anything when the glaring red display of the clock by his bed says it's 6:30 and he can get up and start getting ready for school.

It's in the spring that Sam meets Fuller Clinton, whose parents apparently hated him and thus gave him a moronic name. Fuller, though, promptly said 'fuck you' to the loser factor of his name and proceeded to be the most awesome guy around; he's a lemonade from lemons sort of dude. Fuller's class president, runningback on the football team, top of his class, dates a cheerleader and volunteers for charity on the weekends. Fuller Clinton is the guy your parents want you to be.

Fuller's the first person Sam meets when he walks into Seneca Memorial High School. He's standing inside the front office when Sam picks up his schedule and promptly introduces himself, not offering to show Sam where his classed are so much as insisting. The middle-aged lady working the front desk smiles like Fuller just accounted he was donating a kidney to a dying kitten but at least she manages to contain her simpering until the glass door is swinging shut behind them.

Fuller is funny and nice, filling the awkward gaps in conversation where Sam instinctually fails to volunteer anything about his family or why they moved here or really anything at all beyond what classes he's taking. The older boy doesn't push and doesn't seem perturbed by it, casually excepting Sam's silences and his uncomfortable half-answers all the way to his first period. He makes it through the first half of the day all on his own - he's an old pro at first days - and quickly collects some kind of breaded, fried meat-sticks for lunch which he fully intends to bolt down at the farthest available corner of the cafeteria.

That is until Fuller waves him over emphatically, motioning Sam to the empty seat next to him. Every other chair at the table is full, a couple of extra's obviously crowded in so that one girl actually has to leave her tray in her lap to eat with them, but there's that seat open next to Fuller.

Sam looks down at the unassuming orange plastic chair. There's nothing on the seat, so he gives it an unobtrusive, testing kick, easily passed off as an accident. It doesn't appear to be on the verge of collapsing the moment he sits down either, but Sam still hesitates. Fuller looks up at him with an amused kind of understanding written all over his face, a hint of pity underneath it somewhere as if somebody like Fuller has ever had anybody prank him just because they could.

More than anything else it's that look that makes him sit down.

For eighteen days, Sam's life pretty much revolves around Fuller. Not in a creepy way, he's not stalking the guy or anything, but Sam's pretty far ahead of this school in most of his classes so he has a lot of time on his hands and there are only about three places in town to hang out outside of school – Sam doesn’t even want to consider spending all of that time in the empty apartment. Fuller doesn't seem to begrudge Sam's presence and always invites him to come along for whatever he and his unnecessarily large group of hangers on are doing that afternoon, often bridging well into the night. Fuller drives him around, since Sam has to walk everywhere, and sometimes even calls Sam to check up on him, since Sam finally admitted that he was on his own while his Dad was 'out of town'.

He doesn't mention Dean. There are a lot of reasons; first off, mentioning his brother leads to questions about why he's staying alone or why they're all still living together when Dean's an adult or what the family business is. There's also the fact that, even though there's a very limited amount of his life he can honestly discuss with his new friend, he doesn't feel like a freak when he talks to Fuller, and he's pretty sure the older boy's bound to think it's odd if Sam ends up mentioning Dean in every single story he has - like he doesn't have any friends besides his big brother. Sam's pathetic enough on his own, he really doesn't need the help.

Maybe there might be other reasons he doesn't mention Dean, like the way his stomach churns with worry and a kind of addict-bright need every times he thinks of his brother. How he spends practically all of the hours he's alone at night wondering what Dean's doing, if he's safe, wishing he was in bed next to Sam instead, skin bare and smooth against Sam's. It's nice that he can shove all of that away for a few hours, pretend like the ache doesn't ride him every second of every day, and instead just focus on Fuller.

It's a Thursday when he finally sees his brother again. It's still early evening, only a couple of hours since school let out, and Sam's hanging out at the local diner with Fuller and a random assortment of people Sam kind-of-sort-of knows the names of but doesn't care enough about to waste too much grey matter on. He's happy, just aced a test in English that he'd already taken before, two schools ago, but somehow getting an A never fails to feel good. Fuller insists on buying him an order of cheese fries to celebrate.

Sam's smiling around the grease-laden goodness in his mouth when a deep, mechanical rumble hits him square in the gut. Something wild and hot sparks to life in his chest, tries to fly up out of him and take his lungs along for the ride and he knows the smile on his face has to be huge because his cheeks ache as he sees Dean climb out of the car.

His brother's eyes search the wall of windows at the front of the diner, lock on Sam, and he's smiling just as big, making Sam ache even more and if he wasn't trapped in the booth by Fuller's body, he'd be running over to his brother like some girl in a stupid romance movie. He doesn't even care how sappy that is.

Dean saunters inside, the bell over the door tickling and every girl in the place has her eyes on him but he's only looking at Sam, which is great in ways he figures he'll never be able to describe. Dean grin's like his face is going to split open at any second with it, distracting slightly - but now much, because Sam's used to looking for this stuff - from the short cut on his cheekbone, and the fading bruise surrounding it.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean says, stepping up to their table like he owns the place, and really, he might as well as far as Sam's concerned. It takes a hell of a lot of will power not to just shove Fuller into the floor and pounce on his big brother.

"Hey," he says back, slightly breathless with the excitement that Dean's back and ok and life can officially start again. He's surprised nobody else seems feel him vibrating with all of it.

"Hi," Fuller chimes in, his hand coming up naturally to extend in greeting as he introduces himself. Dean blinks hard, like he just realized there are other people around Sam and it takes a second too long for him to reach out and take Fuller's hand, but when he does its relaxed.

"Dean," he nods his introduction, and that's when it hits Sam how bad this is.

There's Fuller, the American high school dream, everything every parent in the country wishes their child was, and he's got his hand clasped around Dean's. Dean; the guy who would sleep in the back of the classroom during a test and ditch school after spending lunch in the parking lot sharing a beer and a joint, assuming he hadn't dropped out the day he turned eighteen. Dean Winchester; the guy that gives your parents nightmares and in Sam's fucked up family, that makes him the golden child. Two pillars of two very different societies and they're shaking hands over Sam.

There isn't a flicker of recognition in Fuller's eyes when Dean introduces himself, and of course there wouldn't be, since Sam never actually got around to mentioning that he has a brother, let alone that his name is Dean. He sees the name mean nothing to Fuller, sees Dean see it, and something heavy and tar-viscous plops into the pit of his stomach.

"Dean's my-" Sam starts, words a little too fast, a little too high-pitched to sound right.

"Just Dean," his brother interrupts, a slight bite to the words that's all for Sam even though those bottle-green eyes never leave Fuller. He's still shaking Sam's friend's hand, and from the look of their fingers, the grip's gone way past casual. Fuller doesn't let up either. "Come on, Sammy. Got some catching up to do," Dean nearly growls, finally pulling his hand away, but his gaze is still locked on the boy in the booth beside Sam.

Fear like an iron fist grips his chest because Dean's got that look, the same one he wears every time Sam goes on a hunt - like he'll tear whatever's in front of him apart with nothing but his hands and teeth to make sure Sam's safe - and Fuller sure as hell doesn't deserve that. Sam nudges the boy beside him, prompting his friend to get up, and Fuller looks him over speculatively for a second, weighing the 'please don't make a big deal' expression Sam knows he's wearing before finally letting Sam scramble out of the booth to his brother's side.

Dean and Fuller linger, staring each other down, and Sam almost wants to tell his friend not to bother, because there’s no beating Dean in a staring contest, but instead he just shuts up and pulls at the road-stained leather of Dean's jacket.

Quick as a flash, Dean turns, lightning crackling in his eyes and herds Sam across the diner. By his ass. Dean's hand, on his ass, in public; the touch firm and sure, possessive. His brother doesn't relent until they reach the car, one last rough squeeze to globe of Sam's ass cheek before he lets Sam climb into the passenger seat.

If Sam ever slammed the door of the Impala as hard as Dean does then, he'd never hear the end of it; would probably have to get out, kneel down in front of the grill and verbally apologize to the car before Dean would let him ride in her again. Dean just shoves the key in the ignition and throws her in reverse.

Gravel scatters as they pull out of the parking lot, tearing down the road at 20 over the speed limit, Dean's fingers wound so tight around the steering wheel Sam's surprised it isn't bending under the strain.

Adrenaline rides him hard, mind tumbling through a couple of dozen good excuses, except that he's not really sure what he's supposed to be making an excuse for. It's not like he actually did anything wrong here, he's allowed to have friends and hang out with people, there's nothing wrong with it. And it's sure as hell not like Dean wants or expects him to be honest with other people about their lives, so it's not the lying - hell, Dean’s usually proud of him when he lies to civies. Ok, sure, it's probably weird that Sam clearly hadn't mentioned his big brother to his friends, but Dean wasn't around and it's totally reasonable that the subject just never came up, not like he should go out of his way to share personal information anyway.

Then there's the ass thing. What the hell was that about? And who was Dean to decide that that was ok in the first place? Sure, Fuller and them didn't know Dean was his brother, so they probably weren't back in town grabbing their pitchforks and lighting torches to go hunt does the incestuous sinners, but it was still pretty obvious that Dean was a GUY and maybe Sam didn't want everybody in school to suddenly think he's gay. It wasn't anybody's business how Sam got his rocks off or who with and it damn well wasn't Dean place to go advertising it all over town without Sam's permission.

Plus, what if that shit got back to Dad somehow? True, now that the hunt was over, they'd probably be moving on in the next few days anyway, but it's a town of 2,000 people, word's bound to get around and it's way, way too risky. Sam's not really sure what Dad would do if he ever found out, but he has exactly zero desire to ever discover what it would be.

Their driveway is dirt this time, and dust kicks up as they pull up to the apartment, swirling around them even after Dean's shut off the engine.

The car ticks at is starts to cool down, but Dean's still staring straight ahead, sightless, hands gripped to the wheel like it's the only thing keeping him together. He can't bitch at Dean, not now, like this, with his brother's face so hollow and haunted, looking years and years older than he is and far too young at the same time. It hits Sam hard, makes him want to panic, every instinct he has screaming 'make it better'.

Tentatively he reaches out a hand, hesitates before finally letting it rest, featherlight, on Dean's forearm.

"Are you ashamed of me?" The words are so sudden it makes Sam jump, his fingers unsettling from Dean's arm to hang there in midair.

"What?" Sam asks, because clearly whatever Dean said got lost between his ears and his brain. There's no way in a million years Dean would ever think that...

"Are you ashamed of me? Of... how I am or..." He doesn't say 'what we do', doesn't have to for Sam to hear it so loud he thinks he might be struck deaf by the very idea.

"No," Sam breathes, the word squeezing out around the tight knot in his throat, fear and something else that he can't name. "No, never. I could never."

It's the truth, more than maybe he's ever said before; because it would have never occurred to him Dean even needed to hear it. Dean, the guy who didn't need approval from anyone but Dad, who didn't give a shit about what anybody thought about him or who he was or the way he acted; Dean thought Sam was ashamed of him. Might as well think Sam can fly.

He's pawing at Dean's sleeve, repeating the words over and over, trying to make Dean goddamn look at him because every second he doesn't feels like another little part of him dies. Sure, sometimes Dean gets on his nerves, and he almost never understands the things Dean likes or wants, and yeah, there was probably nothing harder in the world than being all knees and elbows at fourteen, tripping over his own damn feet while girls rolled their eyes and stared and then having Dean walk into the room and own it just by being there. Yeah, that had sucked.

And yeah, he'd been embarrassed more than once by Dean's flirting and his brazenness, his fights and his stupid music and the obsession with the freakin' car. He'd hidden his face plenty of times when Dean walked around like a giant 'look at me' sign and he'd avoided introducing Dean to the few people he'd really called friends over the years. But even with all of that - even with this big giant taboo hanging between them every moment when Sam can’t ever seem to take his eyes off of his brother's lips and hands and body - even then, the idea that there was any part of Dean he wouldn't defend to the death was the most insane idea he'd ever heard.

The front door opens, and Dad looks out at them, confused, eyes flicking between the two of them through the window. Warningly he says, "Boys," and then Dean's out of the car, moving inside fast and as blank as if nothing at all had just happened between them. Sam follows suit as best he can, trying not to openly glare at Dad for interrupting all of the things he needed to reassure Dean of, to make them come inside and eat boxed mac and cheese over a tense, silent table.

He really hopes Dean gets it.

***

They don't get a chance to talk that night. For once they have separate rooms - which Sam always used to beg for when he was younger and now seems like a hardship he can barely weather - Dad's room in between them and even with the drinking Dad always does for the first couple of nights after they get back from a hunt, Sam can’t chance sneaking into Dean's room. He wonders if fate's real, and somehow he pissed it off.

The next morning when he gets up for school, Dean's already gone, a pot of coffee still warm on the cheap brewer that came with the kitchen. The liquid makes Sam's guts churn just looking at it and he can't muster up the appetite for anything else either. He leaves for school forty-five minutes before he needs to and drags his feet the whole way.

School is pretty much hell, sitting around, wondering where Dean is, what he's doing, what's going on between them. If he had even an inkling where to look, he'd ditch out and go after him - not like he's actually paying any attention today anyway. He eats a bag of chips from the vending machine for lunch and avoids talking to anybody more than absolutely necessary. It's a good opportunity to clean out his locker, since Dad said they'd be moving on this weekend. Big surprise.

Sam's not sure if it's a relief or not when the final bell rings, because now he can finally go look for Dean, but he also has to actually face whatever's going to happen when he finds him. They've fought before, probably even more than most sibling's do, since they're pretty much the only social interaction either of them has most of the time, but it's never been like this, all twisted up in the other stuff they do now.

Naturally, this is when Fuller finds him, so close to home free, and now trapped by caring, worried eyes. Why the hell did Fuller have to be such a nice guy?

"I heard your leaving," the older boy says, falling into step beside Sam as he switches his too-heavy back pack from one shoulder to the other.

"Yeah. We move a lot," Sam relies shortly. It's not a conversation he's ever really equipped to have and he's got other shit on his mind right now - for once, constantly changing schools again isn't his biggest concern.

Fuller, clears his throat and looks down at his shoes then back up at Sam. "That guy yesterday," Sam's sure his friend remembers Dean's name, it's not the kind of thing a guy like Fuller forgets, "is he part of 'we'?"

"He-" Sam sighs heavily, "Yeah. It's complicated." Really that's about as close as he can get to describing it - he doesn't know if there's an appropriate term for brother/best friend/maybe-boyfriend-except-we-might-be-breaking-up-because-he-thinks-I’m-ashamed-of-him; 'complicated' seems apt.

For a couple of minutes Fuller's quiet beside him, not saying anything else until they're passing through the front doors into the bright, clear sunshine.

"It's not wrong, you know," he says so softly Sam can barely hear it, "Some people say it's a sin and all, but I don't think so. If it's the way you are, then it just is, and that's ok, Sam." His hand comes to rest on Sam's shoulder, one quick, comforting squeeze before he takes it away, looking at the milling crowds of people in front of the school. Sam can’t help but wish it was all just as easy as being gay – if anything normal ever happens to him, he’ll probably spontaneously combust. "He seems to care about you a lot."

It's then that Sam finally looks up and sees what Fuller's staring at. Dean's there, leaning against the trunk of the Impala, a tight but uninviting nod at the couple of inevitable girls lingering around watching him. His eyes are fixed on Sam though, for the first time since the diner yesterday, and it makes that thing in Sam's chest try to fly away again.

Sam jumps the first couple of steps before he actually remembers Fuller's standing next to him, that they're probably never going to see each other again. It takes an incredible force of will to make himself look away from his brother.

"Thanks," he says, because he can't think of anything else besides 'nice knowing you'. The thing is, it was nice knowing Fuller, and maybe in another life they could have been real friends and hung out and talked about stuff like this without all the lies in the way, but that's not the world Sam's living in and it's time he dealt with his own before it all comes collapsing in on him.

He hits the ground running, skids to a stop a couple of feet in front of where Dean's looking warily between him and where Fuller's still standing at the top of the steps.

"Hey," Sam says lamely, letting his back pack slide off of his shoulder and drag on the ground. He doesn't close the space between them, even though he's kind of dying to, not sure what he'll do if Dean pushes him away.

This might not mean anything; Dean's still his brother after all, it's not like he can just keep on avoiding Sam. Maybe this is just a peace offering or something and Sam works really hard to keep his knees from buckling at the idea that he may have screwed up the only good thing in his life without even knowing it.

"What was that about?" Is what Dean asks, eyes still lingering at the top of the steps. His voice is dull and too soft, but there's something stronger behind it too and Sam aims for that when he answers.

"Just saying goodbye," he shrugs, daring to take one step forward, still not touching, but close enough to, if Dean wanted, "Kind of... I guess, he sort of told me to just be myself."

Dean grumbles something that might very well be 'self-righteous douchebag' but Sam decides he's better off not knowing. Fuller is really, like, the last thing he wants to discuss with Dean right now.

"We heading out tonight?" Sam asks, as if the duffles in the back seat aren't enough of an answer. Dean nods jerkily and casts a glance around at the crowd that’s not yet starting to thin as people catch up and make weekend plans, laughter echoing off of the warm asphalt.

Sam figures that's the end of the conversation for now; whatever else needs to be said between them needs to be done in private, preferably as soon as possible, but Dean grabs his wrist as he makes to throw his backpack in the back seat, halting him mid-move.

"Kiss me," Dean says, that hint of a blush on his cheeks that Sam remembers from when they first started all of this, back when Dean was still unsteady and unsure and it hurts like hell to think that he's made Dean feel like that again.

Still, what Dean said, what he's asking for, right here in front of everybody... Right here, in front of everybody. Like he's not ashamed at all.

Sam lets the strap of his backpack slip from his fingers, leaving it laying in the dirt as he takes a step back so he's standing directly in front of his brother. The air between them feels charged, electric, like it's going to crackle as soon as their bodies touch. Sam's starved for that feeling, weeks without it when it’s the only thing that really matters to begin with.

He leans in - down, now - cupping his hand around Dean's jaw and tilts his brother's head up. There's a fraction of a second where they both hang there, looking at each other from too close up to really see anything - it's how they've spent most of their lives, really. Then Sam just closes it, erases the space between them and lets his eyes flutter shut as his lips touch Dean's.

It starts soft and dry, just a hint of nuzzling pressure as Dean's hands slide around his waist. It builds fast though, their lips parting for one another, tongues teasing out to tangle in the heated air their mouths are sharing. One of Dean's hands slides up over Sam's back, hand wrapping in his hair, while the other pulls Sam's hips in tight so the quickly swelling lines of their erections rub together, making Sam buck his hips helplessly. Dean grinds right into him, right there in the parking lot, in front of God and everybody, like he's got no shame - mainly because he doesn't.

Sam gives as good as he gets, not willing to back down from this test of Dean's, because it's not one he can afford to fail. Besides, no way in hell is he about to let Dean win without a fight.

By the time they pull back, Sam's lips are tingly, probably already swollen with blood, just like his cock. He's breathing hard, the air shuffed right back at him as Dean pants too. There are catcalls and a couple of rude comments, but Sam doesn't care enough to bother with them, just rests his forehead against Dean's instead, soaking in this moment; that things are alright again, that one day there might even be a time and a place and a way that they could be like this forever, no hiding. He kisses Dean softly again, short and chaste, and Dean makes a little noise like a whimper when Sam finally takes a step back

Dean wiggles his hips against the Impala, adjusting the obvious bulge in his pants, and smiles lazily at Sam.

"C'mon, Sammy, let's get this show on the road." He gives the Impala a loving pat on the ass - it's the trunk, but there's seriously no question in Sam's mind that Dean thinks of it as her ass - and swaggers around to the driver’s seat, winking at a couple of the groups of staring girls as he goes. Sam grins stupidly and follows right along as usual.

He chucks his stuff in the back and slides onto the benchseat next to Dean. He doesn't see Fuller as they pull out of the parking lot, but then he's not really looking either. Yeah, maybe they were friends, and maybe if things had been different, that could have meant more to Sam than a couple of nice weeks that time they were in Wyoming. But things aren't different, and times like this, with his brother smiling and his arms slung across the back of the seat to rest a hand on the back of Sam's neck, he wouldn't have it any other way.


	6. Chapter 6

It's a miracle. Or a sign of the apocalypse. Or both. Can it be both? Sam's not really thinking clearly right now. Mainly because he's pretty sure his brother drugged their father or possibly blackmailed him, or maybe performed some kind of scary black magic ritual because Sam cannot think of any reason under normal circumstances that John Winchester would have gotten his sons their own room at a motel.

Not that their dad doesn't trust them or anything, he just generally prefers to keep them both in his line of sight at all times. Also, extra room = waste of money, not something that they can afford to be frivolous about. But somehow it's happened, and whatever Dean says, Sam's pretty sure his brother's the one that made it happen. Maybe Dean has heretofore unknown powers of persuasion.

Yeah, ok, Sam's going with black magic.

Still, they're alone. Totally alone, with the whole rest of the night to themselves since Dad turned in with admonishments to get some sleep. Yeah, right.

Just the two of them, two beds and nothing to stop them from making good use of both. Sam's dick has been impersonating granite since Dad handed Dean the key.

Dean drops his duffle by the bed nearest the door and keeps right on walking until he gets to the wall on the other side of the room. Which he stares at, scrubbing at the skin on the back of his neck like he's trying to rub the hide off.

Ok, not exactly the ‘slammed up against the door, tearing each other's clothes off’ entrance Sam had been imagining - vividly - for the last several minutes, but that's alright. It's been less than twelve hours since the big 'no, I'm not ashamed of you' kiss in front of the whole freakin' school, so Dean's probably still a little unsettled. Not that he has any right to be, he was the one who went all PDA on Sam in the first place, but Dean's funny about shit sometimes. Okay, most times.

All he needs is a little motivation.

Sam tosses his bag on the floor too, toeing out of his shoes before he flops - with an exaggerated sigh, to make sure he has Dean's attention - onto the bed. Dean visibly flinches and when he turns around to face Sam it's slow and hesitant.

Dean's face is blushing furiously, way worse than it had this afternoon, worse even than the first time he kissed Sam; his freckles nothing but a cinnamon dusting over red skin. It's enough to make Sam worry, the bright bubble of excitement in his chest deflating right along with his cock.

"Dean, what's wrong?" he asks, leaning up on his elbows, then sitting all the way forward when Dean just shuffles his feet and stares down at the carpet.

His brother mumbles something under his breath and impossibly, manages to blush darker. Sam is officially freaked out.

"Dean, c'mon, talk to me!" Sam gets halfway to standing before he hears Dean mutter “fuck it” and then all of the air gets punched out of Sam's chest as his brother tackles him onto the bed. Seems like Dean's been doing a lot of tackling lately, they should probably talk about that sometime.

Not now though. Now he's got Dean's tongue shoved in his mouth and he damn well intends to keep it there. Broad, callused hands paw at Sam frantically, like they don't have the place all to themselves and Dad could walk in any minute.

Dean's moans spill across Sam's lips along with a half formed litany of what sounds like Sam's name and 'baby' and 'beautiful'. Which really is taking too far because Sam's bigger than Dean now and manly and, well, just way to gangly to be called beautiful. Also, he's not a freakin' girl, no matter how many times Dean says so. On the other hand, Dean makes a very persuasive argument by cupping Sam's once-again-hard cock through his jeans, so really, Dean can call him 'Claire' for all Sam cares.

They nearly topple off of the bed when Dean tries to remove both of their shirts at once and Sam can't help the burst of laughter that wells up as his brother flails wildly to regain his balance. He instantly regrets it because it seems to snap Dean out of whatever kind of sexy-making trance he was in and now he's just kneeling there on the bed, panting and shirtless, staring at Sam with wide green eyes.

Sam puts a hand on his brother's chest, trying to comfort him even though he seriously cannot figure out what the hell is going on. He's starting to wonder if he should go get Dad, despite the nausea inducing terror of that idea.

Dean catches his wrist, pulls Sam's hand up to his mouth and kisses across the knuckles gently before cupping Sam's palm to his lips and giving it the same treatment. This is the strangest thing that has ever happened to him.

He feels the "Love you, Sammy," as much as hears it, like's it's tingling from the skin Dean breathed it against all the way up to his heart to be pumped right out again into every inch of his body. He knows it, of course, could never begin to doubt that Dean loves him; it's just not something they say a lot, not outright, in those words, not without sex or serious injury involved.

"I love you too, Dean," he whispers back, urging his brother closer with a hand cupped to his jaw. He can actually see some of the tension bleed out of Dean and it hurts all over again to think that Dean could have doubted something that's as basic to Sam as breathing.

Dean's eyes catch Sam's, waver and shoot down to the bedspread again. "I wanna... I want..."

"What?" Sam soothes, bringing his reluctant big brother the rest of the way in so their foreheads rest together and he can stroke his thumb over the soft patch of skin behind Dean's ear.

"I wanna be... with you. I mean..." Dean fumbles, growling his frustration into Sam's hair, "Fuck! It's not supposed to be this hard!'

He tries to pull away, but Sam holds on tight refuses to give an inch even if Dean still won't look him in the eye.

"You mean, like, in me?" Sam's voice sounds small, choked out around the sudden clench of his throat and he can't decide whether it's fear or excitement that’s stealing his breath. "Like, you wanna have sex?"

Dean makes a pained sound, tries to wrench himself away again, but Sam just tucks his legs around his brother too, clings like a baby possum. He used to do it when he was little and wanted something Dean thought he shouldn’t have but now he’s big enough to actually keep Dean in place.

Dean's hands hover just shy of actually touching him, the heat radiating out from his palms into the bare expanse of Sam's ribs.

"I want to," Sam assures him, pressing with words into the prickly silk of Dean's hair, "I want to so bad, Dean."

The burn of Dean's fingers on him his like permission to release the breath Sam hadn't even realized he was holding. Slowly, Dean's eyes turn toward him, searching and worried and hungry all at once. It's a look Dean wears a lot.

"What was your first time like?" It's out of Sam's mouth before he can think of all of the ways it might screw this up; that damnedable curiosity overwhelming him again because somehow this seems like the kind of thing he should know even if this is probably the worst possible time to ask. The corner of Dean's mouth twitches and when he answers the tone is a little flat, like when he's running down the stats from morgue reports.

"Fast. Messy. It was behind this arcade in Iowa somewhere. Girl's name was Christy, or Chrissy. Didn't mean anything." Dean doesn't say 'not like this' because Sam doesn't need him to. He know it the same way he know the sky will still be blue tomorrow and the sun will still rise in the east and bacon will still be delicious; he's special to Dean, in a way that nobody else will ever be - not girls he hooks up with, or waitresses he flirts with, not hunters he admires or Steve McQueen characters he tries to be like or even Dad. Sam's special to Dean, and everything they do, everything they ever have of ever will do, means something. And he knows that's why Dean's freaking out.

"This time'll be better." Sam smiles, bumping his nose against his brother's gently, not quite a nuzzle. Dean grins despite himself and ruffles Sam's hair.

"Damn straight, Sammy."

When their lips come together this time it's gentle, but deep; all slow burning heat that replaces Sam's marrow and seeps out all the way through him. For a long while that's all there is, those slow smooth kisses that shut Sam's brain down and make him forget why his body's so eager. He's not sure how they ended up laying down of when they got rid of their pants, the suckle of Dean's mouth and the warm strength of his brother against him taking up all of his consciousness.

Then Dean breaks the kiss - that habit's getting old by the way - and says, voice rumbling through his chest right into Sam, "I want you to go first. To t-take me". Sam's still got that brain-shut-down thing happening, but fortunately Dean gets it - always does - so he takes Sam's hand and slides it down behind him until Sam's fingers just brush the cleft of Dean's ass.

Sam's startled enough that he gasps and jerks his hand back which his balls immediately start trying to eat him alive for. But it's just. Well. It's new. Like really new. Not that he's never thought about it or anything, it's just not how they work and Sam's always enjoyed the stuff they do so he's never seen any point in complaining. And now Dean's wants to...

"Have you ever?" Sam tentatively lets his hand slide of the curve of Dean's backside, just rubbing over the firm fullness of the cheek. Dean shakes his head 'no' but scoots in just a fraction closer like an encouragement. Carefully Sam slips just one finger along the warm divide, stupidly shocked when he finds Dean's hole, as though he really hadn't expected it to be there or something. But it is, right there, tight and furled and pretty much exactly like his own, except this time he's only feeling it from one side and that's kind of strange.

"I'm not doing it to you unless I know its ok," Dean says resolutely, and Sam bites back the retort on the tip of his tongue about all of the other stuff Dean's done with him. "Not gonna hurt you, Sammy."

Leave it to Dean to be issuing ultimatums when Sam's got a finger poised over his asshole. It's enough to make Sam smile wryly and slowly nod his head, because there’s no point in arguing - once Dean's dug in his heels, there's no way around it.

Dean smirks and Sam can't resist pressing just a little bit with his finger - not enough to enter, but plenty to wipe that smug smile off of his brother's face.

Rolling his eyes, Dean pushes Sam's hand away momentarily to scoot over to the side of the bed and root through his duffle for the bottle of lube he keeps hidden in a rolled up pair of underwear. He tosses it to Sam easily, as if he didn't just insist that his little brother fuck him up the ass and settles back down on his side, next to Sam.

The cap on the lube is suddenly eight billion times more complicated than it used to be; he's starting to think that maybe Dean superglued it on and this is all just a big joke. He twists hard and the cap goes flying off, sails clear across the room to clatter against the wall. Yeah, Sam's a suave motherfucker.

Dean's biting his lips to cover what sounds suspiciously like a snicker, so Sam doesn't feel too bad when he squirts way too much lube onto his fingers and presses the tip of the first one in without warning. This is turning out to be an awesome way to shut Dean up, maybe they should do this more often.

Then, of course, his mind actually locks in on how warm and tight it is inside Dean, how different it feels when he's only getting the sensation from his fingers and wow, no wonder Dean likes doing this to him so much. There's only a little bit of resistance as the first finger slides home, still enough that he can feel Dean clenching up all over, so Sam paints soft kisses up Dean's neck, across his shoulder until some of the tension eases. His mouth finds that little spot under Dean's jaw that makes him go all twitchy and gets his eyelashes fluttering and concentrates there.

His brother moans, baring his neck more for Sam and the tight muscle around Sam's slowly moving finger relents enough that he can tease around the edge with a second digit and carefully slide it in too. God, it's so silky inside, so hot and strong and clearly Sam has not been giving Dean enough credit for not fucking him through the mattress long before now because without the sting and the stretch and the white-hot little jolts from his sweet spot, all Sam can think about is how good that would feel around his dick.

And oh, hey, sweet spot, he should probably figure out where that is. It only takes a minute of rubbing around inside - which makes Dean sort of squirm and make these pleased, kind of confused noises - to figure out where it is and then Dean's bucking his hips forward so hard Sam's pretty sure he's going to have a bruise on his own where they collide.

"Oh fucking fuck," Dean gasps, disbelief clear in his voice, "Do that again."

Grinning, Sam does exactly as his brother says, teasing the little bit of flesh between his fingers and Dean actually whimpers, fingers clawing at the bed. Sam figures that's as good a time as any to get a third finger inside. A quiet whine builds in Dean's throat and Sam knows that feeling too, so he captures his brother's lips and fucks his tongue slowly in and out of Dean's mouth in time to what his fingers are doing in Dean's ass – just the way he likes it when Dean does this to him. Dean's hand cups the back of his head, holding him in place with a grip twisted up in his hair and then it's back to moaning.

Sam's dick is all but screaming at him to get on with it, or at least get a hand on himself, but as soon as he tries Dean bats it away, pulling at Sam's other hand too until he's free to scoot a little way up the bed and lay out flat on his back, legs spread open.

Ok.

Ok.

It takes a good thirty seconds for Sam's brain to reboot from that because Jesus Effing Christ, nothing has ever been that sexy before. Ever. In the annals of human history, this shall go down as the hottest moment of all time and Sam feels truly privileged to be here for it.

Dean, however, does not seem to appreciate the historical significance and is giving Sam his 'come on, fucktard' look. Well, fine then.

"Um," Sam hesitates for a second, surveying the bed in case he just overlooked something, "Shouldn't we- Aren't you supposed to... you know, use a... thing?"

Dean's smirk is back full force and the angle’s all wrong for Sam to just shove his fingers in Dean's ass to wipe it away again. "A thing, Sammy? Like a dick? 'Cause I thought you had one between your legs, but I guess I was wrong and you are a big ol' girl after all."

His fist makes a satisfying thud against Dean's shoulder but his brother refuses to flinch even though Sam knows for sure that hurt. Like his dick. God, his dick hurts; it’s like his whole lower body is cramping in sympathy. They really need to get on with this.

"A condom, jerk," he snorts, arms crossed over his chest. Admittedly, the fact that he's naked and so hard his dick's flat against his belly probably detracts from his pout somewhat.

"Bitch," Dean says automatically, jumping in before Sam can snap back at him, "Dude, how many times have you swallowed for me? You really think I've got anything you don't? You really think I'd have ever _let_ you swallow if there was even a chance that I had something?" Dean's glare is still pretty intimidating despite the naked and spread out like a chick thing, so maybe Sam was being too hard on himself about the pout. "I'm careful, ok. I've never gone bareback with anybody before - ever. Now if you don't hurry the hell up I'm gonna take back the offer and make you go jack it in the bathroom, twerp."

It's an idle threat and they both know it, so Sam doesn't even spare a thought for it. Instead he lets that warm feeling from earlier flow through him because that's one more first that Sam gets to have with Dean - because Dean wants it that way. He's probably grinning like a loon, but he doesn't care.

The lube seems to be on a mission to thwart Sam losing his virginity - holy crap, he's actually losing his virginity! - but he finally manages to grope around and find it, slicking himself with one hand while the rest of his attention is dedicated to kissing Dean within an inch of his life.

It's like a string pulls tight inside of him as he presses the dripping tip of his cock to Dean's hole, everything pulling taut until he can't breathe around the tension, is literally shaking with it. He jerks in surprise when Dean's hand covers his around the base of his dick, guiding him forward. Sam's eyes dart up to his brother's and it's the same look Dean's given him a thousand times, calm and supportive and proud, and yet totally different too because there's never been anything like this before and it's all mixed up with want and love and nerves and Dean's... Dean's right there with him. Not invulnerable or experienced or any of that stuff that seems like it's supposed to matter, because this is all new for them both and Dean's hand is shaking too.

Together they hold Sam's steady as he pushes in and then Dean's eyes slam closed, jaw clenched as he grits his teeth. It takes everything Sam has to ignore the hot, satiny flesh around his, the grip so tight it almost hurts, and concentrate instead on gentling Dean through it with caressing sweeps of his hands and soft, wet kisses all over his chest.

Slowly he feels the muscles start to give as he buries himself deep and holds there for what feels like a couple dozen eternities until Dean experimentally shifts his hips. Then it's Sam's turn to clamp his eyes closed because if he doesn't start moving soon he might just spontaneously combust from all of the heat welling up from his groin.

"Move, Sam," Dean chokes out, and rolls his hips again, more certainly this time. Like hell Sam's going to question an order like that.

Thrusting into Dean's body is perfect, nothing could ever match it, and Sam never ever wants to stop. Dean's legs pull him in close so the thrusts are deeps and every few strokes he can hear his brother's breath catch when he finds the right spot. It's so good, so right, Sam feels like he's losing his mind, like every second of his life up until right now has been a complete waste because he had no idea what feeling even was until he fucked Dean.

He's so far into it that he barely registers the cool slickness on his skin until Dean's finger presses inside of him. His brother's arm is bent at an odd angle, supporting himself on his other elbow to reach around behind Sam - when the hell did he slick his fingers up? - and use the momentum of Sam's own thrusts to finger him open. And he was wrong, he didn't know what feeling was until right the fuck now.

Oh God, oh shit, it's going to be over stupidly fast and there's nothing Sam can do to stop it, orgasm barreling down on his like a freight train and he's tied to the tracks. Dean's hole milking his cock and Dean's fingers - two or three or eight, who the hell can count at a time like this? - slamming his hot spot on every push and yes, just fuck yes!

It hits him hard, more than breath stealing; his body actually forgets HOW to breathe. He'd put money down his heart stopped beating for a second there too. In fact, the only sign of life at all is the lightning strike of pleasure frying his nerves and the burning, slick pulse of his own come all around him, filling Dean up.

Sam returns to reality on his back, staring up at the hazy, grinning face of his big brother. Sam's trembling so hard it may qualify as a seizure and he's completely useless as Dean tries to rearrange him, limbs flopping limp as a dead fish. It all still feels pretty damn good.

Dean laughs deep in his chest, and pets Sam's thigh while his other hand strokes lube onto his angry red cock. Oh. Yeah. Sam was probably supposed to have done something about that during the fucking. Damn, he sucks at this!

Although Dean seems to have plans of his own, so maybe Sam doesn't need to feel so bad.

One of Sam's knees ends up settled over Dean's shoulder as his brother leans in to kiss him fiercely once before Sam feels the blunt press that has to be Dean's cock. Instinctually Sam tightens up, but in his fucked out state, even tightened up is pretty loose, so Dean slides right in like that's where he belongs. It's full, much fuller than when it was Dean's fingers. There's that shocky burn and the stretch and it's bizarrely good in a dull sort of way.

Damn, fucking hell damn. Sam had just come to grips with the fact that Dean laid out for him was the hottest thing ever and now his brother had to go and rewrite history again.

Dean throws his head back when he's all the way inside, hissing with pleasure and biting his already blood-heavy lip. His mouth looks so red and so plump and Sam just wants to lean up and suck on it for a little while. Or possibly forever, whichever comes first.

Then Dean moves, actually moves and the fullness inside of him shift and oh... Sam's toes curl and his back arches and blood rushes hot and painful into his dick, hardening again. Sam's hasn't got control over any of it. Jesus, how can anything possibly feel that good after what he just went through; he'd think his body would be maxed out of pleasure right now.

"Ung, yeah. Fuck, Sammy. So good," Dean's breaths are hot gusts against his face, words rasped out in a stuttered counterpoint to the steadily increasing power of his thrusts. "So tight, baby."

Sam locks his legs around Dean’s pulling him in closer just the way he had done to Sam and his calves meet cool wetness on the back of Dean’s thighs. His come. God, his come, leaking out of Dean body. His dick spurts a sloppy glob of precome onto his belly and he slicks his legs up and down the back of Dean’s thighs just to relish the feel.

Dean's voice crawls up into a whine, barely audible over the pounding of blood in Sam's ears as it spikes every time Dean hits the right angle. His thrusts go sloppy erratic, his hands pawing at Sam again like he's going to crawl inside his little brother’s skin and then he groans urgently, "Fuck, Sammy, fuck! Sam!". Dean's body crashes down on top of him, hips pressing in as close as he can to Sam and then somehow even closer so that the soft pulses of heat Sam can feel inside of himself go deep. That feeling and the sweet, sweat-slick friction of Dean’s stomach is enough to get Sam to the peak again, muscles clamping tight around the girth inside of him as he comes, dragging a strangled noise from his brother.

He doesn’t know if it’s the whir of his heartbeat or just how quietly Dean’s saying it, but sometime over the next few panting, come-sticky minutes he realizes that the breaths Dean is huffing into the curve of his neck are all colored with the word ‘mine’. Sam can’t do anything but nod his head slowly in agreement.

At last, with a grunt of effort Dean pulls out and Sam doesn’t quite cover the wince at how tender his body feels now. A minute later his brother’s wiping him down with a warm washcloth, sweeping up the mess on his stomach and gingerly wiping at the mess of lube and come at his hole. It’s probably weird that he likes the feel of it slowly trickling from his own hole just as much as he did when it was leaking out of Dean’s, but Sam’s starting to make peace with the fact that he’s really screwed up.

Sweat-tacky heat presses up against his side and for once it’s Dean’s head buried against Sam’s shoulder, not the other way around. “Thank you,” Dean whispers, almost too soft for Sam to hear. He pulls an arm around his older brother, tucking close to the body that for so much of his life seemed so impossibly bigger and stronger than his own.

“That was awesome,” Sam purrs once he’s finally found his voice, nose buried in the top of Dean’s head. All he gets in return is a ‘hmm’, but he knows Dean well enough to know that a smile goes along with that noise. He lets his fingers play up and down the length of Dean’s spine, idly tracing the edges of scars, remembering the story that goes along with each one.

“So how long do you think before you can get it up again, old man?” Sam grins at the ceiling, giddy, listening to the low growl build up in his brother’s voice.

“Least I’ve got staying power, baby boy.” Dean curls a finger against his thumb and Sam realizes a second too late what’s about to happen. He yelps loud enough Dad could probably hear it two rooms over, cupping his hands over his crotch to protect it from any more unwarranted flicking, but all that does is leave his face open to the soft smack of a pillow.

Sam recovers quickly, groping around to find his own pillow in the mess they’ve made of the sheets while Dean pummels him with the one in his hand. It’s totally worth it for the look on Dean’s face when Sam’s finally got himself armed and sneaks in a powerful headshot the rumples Dean’s hair every which way and nearly knocks him off the bed.

By the end of it, one of the pillows is completely trashed, fluffy little remnants of it scattered across the floor, and the poly-fill is all shoved down into the end of the other so it’s more like a brick in a pillow case, but they had already devolved into a wrestling match by then so it didn’t matter. That in turn devolved into kissing and now it’s just lazy making out as Dean’s cock starts coming back to life against Sam’s thigh.

It’s nice, even if it’s weird, or should be weird, or whatever. It’s just them, and no matter how much changes, Sam knows that this is always going to be the same.


End file.
